Dec. 24th
Read (&/or act out) the Christmas Story from the Bible.
Merry Christmas!
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Dec. 23
Dec.23
Jesus is no mere figure from the past, captive in the pages of SCRIPTURE. He lives today! He holds the universe to its course, and guides the work of his servants on the earth.
SCRIPTURE: D & C 76:19-20,22-24
SUGGESTION: Go out with friends singing Christmas carols, but add some hymns about other aspects of Christ's ministry.
Maja Lorenz, “Christmas Mystery,” New Era, Dec. 2002, 26
After a long and hard divorce, my mother decided to move our family from Germany to the United States—the home she’d left many years ago when she married my father. Even though my brothers and I were excited, it was a difficult time for us. We had to adjust to a new home and to a different country and culture.
Soon we found a house, and my brothers and I started school. We had moved to Massachusetts, where we attended a small ward. The members welcomed us warmly, and we quickly made many good friends.
Things weren’t going too badly, but my mother hadn’t been able to find a job as quickly as we had hoped. My older brother was serving a mission, and Christmas was coming closer, so money was tight. My younger brothers and I knew we wouldn’t be getting many presents that year. I often saw my mother sitting in her room, thinking of how to pay the bills and still have enough to buy presents and make this a wonderful Christmas. My brothers and I tried to convince her that we didn’t need any presents. But she knew we were just trying to make things easier and that we would be disappointed if we didn’t get anything at all.
Christmas Eve came, and we each had a couple of presents under the tree. Mother was completing the final preparations when the phone rang. She answered it. All she heard was, “An elf from the North Pole has left something for you at the front door.” Then the line was dead.
I stepped out of my room and saw my mother standing beside the phone. When I asked who had called, she slowly repeated the message she had heard. I quickly grabbed her, and we opened the front door. Outside were five big bags filled with presents. Each was carefully wrapped and had a tag.
I hurriedly woke my brothers, and with great excitement we opened the bags and placed the gifts under the tree. Long after going to bed, each of us wondered who might have called and left the bags on our doorstep. My mother didn’t go to bed for a long time. She just sat in the living room and looked at the Christmas tree with all its lights and the presents lying beneath it.
Christmas day came. We got up and opened our presents, which were all carefully selected to match our interests and needs. It was the nicest Christmas I’ve ever had.
We still don’t know who gave us the wonderful gifts, and we decided to stop trying to figure it out. But I will never forget that Christmas, not only because of the presents, but because of the lesson I learned. We are all saved because of Jesus Christ’s great love for us. He was born and died for each of us, and too often we forget the true meaning of Christmas. That year I was reminded of the love the Savior has for each of us and that he wants us to love and serve one another. I am so grateful for the Christ like example of our secret friend.
Jesus is no mere figure from the past, captive in the pages of SCRIPTURE. He lives today! He holds the universe to its course, and guides the work of his servants on the earth.
SCRIPTURE: D & C 76:19-20,22-24
SUGGESTION: Go out with friends singing Christmas carols, but add some hymns about other aspects of Christ's ministry.
Maja Lorenz, “Christmas Mystery,” New Era, Dec. 2002, 26
After a long and hard divorce, my mother decided to move our family from Germany to the United States—the home she’d left many years ago when she married my father. Even though my brothers and I were excited, it was a difficult time for us. We had to adjust to a new home and to a different country and culture.
Soon we found a house, and my brothers and I started school. We had moved to Massachusetts, where we attended a small ward. The members welcomed us warmly, and we quickly made many good friends.
Things weren’t going too badly, but my mother hadn’t been able to find a job as quickly as we had hoped. My older brother was serving a mission, and Christmas was coming closer, so money was tight. My younger brothers and I knew we wouldn’t be getting many presents that year. I often saw my mother sitting in her room, thinking of how to pay the bills and still have enough to buy presents and make this a wonderful Christmas. My brothers and I tried to convince her that we didn’t need any presents. But she knew we were just trying to make things easier and that we would be disappointed if we didn’t get anything at all.
Christmas Eve came, and we each had a couple of presents under the tree. Mother was completing the final preparations when the phone rang. She answered it. All she heard was, “An elf from the North Pole has left something for you at the front door.” Then the line was dead.
I stepped out of my room and saw my mother standing beside the phone. When I asked who had called, she slowly repeated the message she had heard. I quickly grabbed her, and we opened the front door. Outside were five big bags filled with presents. Each was carefully wrapped and had a tag.
I hurriedly woke my brothers, and with great excitement we opened the bags and placed the gifts under the tree. Long after going to bed, each of us wondered who might have called and left the bags on our doorstep. My mother didn’t go to bed for a long time. She just sat in the living room and looked at the Christmas tree with all its lights and the presents lying beneath it.
Christmas day came. We got up and opened our presents, which were all carefully selected to match our interests and needs. It was the nicest Christmas I’ve ever had.
We still don’t know who gave us the wonderful gifts, and we decided to stop trying to figure it out. But I will never forget that Christmas, not only because of the presents, but because of the lesson I learned. We are all saved because of Jesus Christ’s great love for us. He was born and died for each of us, and too often we forget the true meaning of Christmas. That year I was reminded of the love the Savior has for each of us and that he wants us to love and serve one another. I am so grateful for the Christ like example of our secret friend.
Dec. 22
Dec.22
As the holidays get busier and busier, we become involved in so many things -- running errands, attending parties, buying presents, choosing wrapping paper and ribbons. It's easy to become focused on material things. Instead, let's remember where our lives ought to be centered.
SCRIPTURE: John 6:35John 10:14John 11:25John 8:12
SUGGESTION: Go look at Christmas light and think about where all light really comes from.
SONG: " The Lord Is My Shepherd", Hymns, Page 108
Envelope Under the Door
by Hazel Shirley
Years ago when I was working in the El Cerrito Variety Store, a freckle faced boy named Tim Hinch applied for a temporary job to earn some Christmas money. My boss, Harold Payel, liked his looks and hired him at $10.00 per week. The job was after school and would last only three weeks. Lay-away shelves were loaded with packages until Christmas Eve. One package had been there since early October.
The lady who had selected the things in that October package had come in one afternoon to ask if I could help her with a big problem. "I have only two dollars," she said, holding back her tears. Her husband drank heavily, and the little she had earned at home doing laundry work wasn't enough even to feed her four young boys properly. A relative had sent her the two dollars; otherwise, there would have been no Christmas gifts at all. I knew she was telling the truth because she lived in my neighborhood.
We had a difficult time trying to make two dollars buy gifts for four little boys. She kept picking up a ball, then putting it down. Finally she gasped, "I must take this for the baby. He's not even two yet. I want him to have a toy."
I could not say a word. I had a lump in my throat as big as a watermelon. As the pathetic little selection was made, she left with her parcel. Such a small parcel for four small boys. As soon as she left, Tim, who had heard the conversation, came to me with a ten-dollar bill. "Please give me an envelope and tell me where that lady lives." "Tim," I said, "where did you get that money? You told me this morning you didn't have a dime."
"I asked the boss for my pay ahead of time. He thinks I want to do some last minute shopping." "Well," I said, "You aren't going to give it to that woman, are you? You need it yourself."
"I know," Tim replied soberly. "That's why I have to give it to her. My mother had to suffer that same way when we kids were little. You see, I know how it feels. I just have to give it to her." He kept holding out his hand for the envelope. I was speechless as I scribbled the name and address for Tim. Then, tucking the bill in the envelope, he looked at me fiercely. "If you ever tell a soul . . . " I just stood there, watching him go, fighting back the sudden tears. One of the clerks came up and asked what was troubling me. I took her hand, "Come with me." I dragged her to the boss's office where I repeated what had happened.
Our boss was a wonderful man. He didn't seem to mind our seeing his tears. Then Christmas really started in that store. The Christmas spirit, mysterious as always, had made its appearance and as always, once started, all the gloom or indifference in the world could not stop it. Tim's pay envelope wasn't empty - it was fuller than ever. Everyone tried to do something special for everybody or just anybody.
When Tim returned he was worried. "What if her husband finds the money or one of the kids gets it? I just shoved it under her door."
But in a little while the woman was back, her tired blue eyes shining like stars, so happy and excited she could scarcely talk. "Just imagine," she exclaimed. "There really is a Santa Claus." Showing me the money, she added, "I wish I knew where it came from. Of course, I must keep some for food, but I can get some more things from the package, if you still have it." My boss had already told me what to do. "Don't worry," I told her. "You have more than enough for all the things. Here, the package is all tied up and ready to go."
"But how . . ."
"Well you see," I explained hurriedly. "After Christmas we would have to mark the things down so much . . ." Oh, how I wanted her to believe me! "Here you are now. You'd better hurry or you'll be too late to get your groceries. Merry Christmas."
As the holidays get busier and busier, we become involved in so many things -- running errands, attending parties, buying presents, choosing wrapping paper and ribbons. It's easy to become focused on material things. Instead, let's remember where our lives ought to be centered.
SCRIPTURE: John 6:35John 10:14John 11:25John 8:12
SUGGESTION: Go look at Christmas light and think about where all light really comes from.
SONG: " The Lord Is My Shepherd", Hymns, Page 108
Envelope Under the Door
by Hazel Shirley
Years ago when I was working in the El Cerrito Variety Store, a freckle faced boy named Tim Hinch applied for a temporary job to earn some Christmas money. My boss, Harold Payel, liked his looks and hired him at $10.00 per week. The job was after school and would last only three weeks. Lay-away shelves were loaded with packages until Christmas Eve. One package had been there since early October.
The lady who had selected the things in that October package had come in one afternoon to ask if I could help her with a big problem. "I have only two dollars," she said, holding back her tears. Her husband drank heavily, and the little she had earned at home doing laundry work wasn't enough even to feed her four young boys properly. A relative had sent her the two dollars; otherwise, there would have been no Christmas gifts at all. I knew she was telling the truth because she lived in my neighborhood.
We had a difficult time trying to make two dollars buy gifts for four little boys. She kept picking up a ball, then putting it down. Finally she gasped, "I must take this for the baby. He's not even two yet. I want him to have a toy."
I could not say a word. I had a lump in my throat as big as a watermelon. As the pathetic little selection was made, she left with her parcel. Such a small parcel for four small boys. As soon as she left, Tim, who had heard the conversation, came to me with a ten-dollar bill. "Please give me an envelope and tell me where that lady lives." "Tim," I said, "where did you get that money? You told me this morning you didn't have a dime."
"I asked the boss for my pay ahead of time. He thinks I want to do some last minute shopping." "Well," I said, "You aren't going to give it to that woman, are you? You need it yourself."
"I know," Tim replied soberly. "That's why I have to give it to her. My mother had to suffer that same way when we kids were little. You see, I know how it feels. I just have to give it to her." He kept holding out his hand for the envelope. I was speechless as I scribbled the name and address for Tim. Then, tucking the bill in the envelope, he looked at me fiercely. "If you ever tell a soul . . . " I just stood there, watching him go, fighting back the sudden tears. One of the clerks came up and asked what was troubling me. I took her hand, "Come with me." I dragged her to the boss's office where I repeated what had happened.
Our boss was a wonderful man. He didn't seem to mind our seeing his tears. Then Christmas really started in that store. The Christmas spirit, mysterious as always, had made its appearance and as always, once started, all the gloom or indifference in the world could not stop it. Tim's pay envelope wasn't empty - it was fuller than ever. Everyone tried to do something special for everybody or just anybody.
When Tim returned he was worried. "What if her husband finds the money or one of the kids gets it? I just shoved it under her door."
But in a little while the woman was back, her tired blue eyes shining like stars, so happy and excited she could scarcely talk. "Just imagine," she exclaimed. "There really is a Santa Claus." Showing me the money, she added, "I wish I knew where it came from. Of course, I must keep some for food, but I can get some more things from the package, if you still have it." My boss had already told me what to do. "Don't worry," I told her. "You have more than enough for all the things. Here, the package is all tied up and ready to go."
"But how . . ."
"Well you see," I explained hurriedly. "After Christmas we would have to mark the things down so much . . ." Oh, how I wanted her to believe me! "Here you are now. You'd better hurry or you'll be too late to get your groceries. Merry Christmas."
Dec. 21
Dec.21
The morning of Christ's resurrection was the brightest morning in all history -- a time of transcendent joy following the gloom of the crucifixion. The words of the angel still echo down the centuries undiminished. He is risen! Those words signaled more that the triumph of a God. They proclaimed the supremacy of life over death. As we celebrate Christmas, we also celebrate the free gift of immortality for all mankind.
SCRIPTURE: Matthew 28:1-6Isaiah 25:8
SUGGESTION: Read the accounts of the Resurrection in the 4 Gospels and 3Nephi and then record your feelings in your journal (see Matt.28,Mark 16, Luke 24, John 20 and 3 Nephi 11).
SONG: " He Is Risen", Hymns, Page 199
Christmas In St. Petersburg
by Elder Greg Nelson
Russia St. Petersburg Mission
New Era, Dec. 1992, 21
It was Christmas Eve around the world, but just another frosty December night in St. Petersburg, Russia. This country celebrated no such holiday.
Our zone had just presented a Christmas program in the huge Kazanski Cathedral, where we sang Christmas songs and read from the book of Luke. It seemed as if our words and notes drifted up to the lofty ceiling and were swallowed by the darkness. But the sparse audience, mostly members and investigators, had partaken of the Spirit.
Our missionary work hadn't been going well. People didn't want to listen to two humble young men give them a message of redeeming love. Perhaps because of my discouragement, the Christmas celebration planned for later that evening didn't hold much appeal for me.
My boots kicked up some new fallen snow and I shoved my bare hands deeper into my pockets. My gloves had been misplaced at a hotel a few days earlier. In this country, you don't just walk into a store and buy gloves. You need to search. Suddenly, Elder Redd sat down on a bench in the small park in front of the cathedral. I thought, Oh, now what? I just want to go home where it's warmer. Home was not the right thing to think about. It brought a flood of memories I really didn't want to ponder right then. This was my first Christmas away, and I was feeling down. Where were all the decorations and the hustle and bustle of the holiday season? What about stockings, Christmas trees, and nativity scenes?
We hadn't been able to get through to the international operator, so it looked as if I couldn't make my phone call home either.
Tears welled in my eyes. I turned around so my back was to the wind. As I faced the cathedral, everything began to grow quiet. I looked at the majestic structure in front of me, bathed in pale, green light. The stars above were pin dots on a black shade, radiating calmness and peace.
"Silent night, holy night; all is calm, all is bright. �" The phrases softly entered my mind and drifted in whispers from my lips. "Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace." Elder Redd heard me and joined in a little bit louder. There was a feeling of reverence.
As we sang the second and third verses, a warm realization came to me. The joy, happiness, and peace at Christmas come from within. The material things and outward symbols of celebration bring sweet feelings, but only for a short moment. Instantly, the thought of sharing Christmas with the other elders became appealing. It would be a gathering of friendship and love. We missionaries all needed to strengthen each other.
Christmas is what you make of it. It doesn't matter if you're with family and friends or halfway around the world. The real gifts at Christmastime are the fruits of the Spirit. Paul said, "The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith" (Gal. 5:22). Could one ask for anything more during the celebration of Christ's birth?
The morning of Christ's resurrection was the brightest morning in all history -- a time of transcendent joy following the gloom of the crucifixion. The words of the angel still echo down the centuries undiminished. He is risen! Those words signaled more that the triumph of a God. They proclaimed the supremacy of life over death. As we celebrate Christmas, we also celebrate the free gift of immortality for all mankind.
SCRIPTURE: Matthew 28:1-6Isaiah 25:8
SUGGESTION: Read the accounts of the Resurrection in the 4 Gospels and 3Nephi and then record your feelings in your journal (see Matt.28,Mark 16, Luke 24, John 20 and 3 Nephi 11).
SONG: " He Is Risen", Hymns, Page 199
Christmas In St. Petersburg
by Elder Greg Nelson
Russia St. Petersburg Mission
New Era, Dec. 1992, 21
It was Christmas Eve around the world, but just another frosty December night in St. Petersburg, Russia. This country celebrated no such holiday.
Our zone had just presented a Christmas program in the huge Kazanski Cathedral, where we sang Christmas songs and read from the book of Luke. It seemed as if our words and notes drifted up to the lofty ceiling and were swallowed by the darkness. But the sparse audience, mostly members and investigators, had partaken of the Spirit.
Our missionary work hadn't been going well. People didn't want to listen to two humble young men give them a message of redeeming love. Perhaps because of my discouragement, the Christmas celebration planned for later that evening didn't hold much appeal for me.
My boots kicked up some new fallen snow and I shoved my bare hands deeper into my pockets. My gloves had been misplaced at a hotel a few days earlier. In this country, you don't just walk into a store and buy gloves. You need to search. Suddenly, Elder Redd sat down on a bench in the small park in front of the cathedral. I thought, Oh, now what? I just want to go home where it's warmer. Home was not the right thing to think about. It brought a flood of memories I really didn't want to ponder right then. This was my first Christmas away, and I was feeling down. Where were all the decorations and the hustle and bustle of the holiday season? What about stockings, Christmas trees, and nativity scenes?
We hadn't been able to get through to the international operator, so it looked as if I couldn't make my phone call home either.
Tears welled in my eyes. I turned around so my back was to the wind. As I faced the cathedral, everything began to grow quiet. I looked at the majestic structure in front of me, bathed in pale, green light. The stars above were pin dots on a black shade, radiating calmness and peace.
"Silent night, holy night; all is calm, all is bright. �" The phrases softly entered my mind and drifted in whispers from my lips. "Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace." Elder Redd heard me and joined in a little bit louder. There was a feeling of reverence.
As we sang the second and third verses, a warm realization came to me. The joy, happiness, and peace at Christmas come from within. The material things and outward symbols of celebration bring sweet feelings, but only for a short moment. Instantly, the thought of sharing Christmas with the other elders became appealing. It would be a gathering of friendship and love. We missionaries all needed to strengthen each other.
Christmas is what you make of it. It doesn't matter if you're with family and friends or halfway around the world. The real gifts at Christmastime are the fruits of the Spirit. Paul said, "The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith" (Gal. 5:22). Could one ask for anything more during the celebration of Christ's birth?
Dec. 20
Dec.20
some things are almost too painful to think about. To see our Savior mocked and murdered is one such thing. And yet, through the Scriptures, we should visit Calvary from time to time. We must never forget Jesus died so that we might live and live more abundantly.
SCRIPTURE: Matthew 27; 28-30Luke 23:33-34Mark 15:29-32
SUGGESTION: Read the accounts of the crucifixion in the four Gospels, and then write your feelings in your journal.
SONG: "There Is A Green Hill Far Away", Hymns, page 194
Patricia Bronson Brower, “Danny’s Gift,” Friend, Dec 1972, 22
The stars hung in the icy night like frozen teardrops above the Arizona desert mesa. Old mother moon rode high, clustering her starry children about her as if to warm their chilly faces. On the snow-crusted earth below, Danny Yazzi shivered in his worn jacket as he chanted a Navajo lullaby to the small band of sheep milling around him.
As Danny stamped his feet to keep warm, he thought of the mud hogan where his mother would be preparing mutton stew. His brothers and sisters would be playing about the black pot-bellied stove, turned a cherry red by the crackling fire, while his father pounded thin slices of silver into delicate bracelets and rings.
Danny whistled softly, and the white animals, shaggy with thick wool, began to move down the sloping side of the mesa, brushing against one another. Grazing time had ended for another wintry day, and now they turned homeward toward a corral.
As Danny began to move behind them, the sheep bells fastened about his waist jingled merrily. The sounds of the bells rang through the still night. Tonight the bells seemed to ring with a different tone. Even the animals seemed to listen to the new sweet sound of joy.
Danny’s thoughts went back to the day of his last Primary class. He and seven other Navajo children had sat before a tall slender missionary who told them the story of the birth of Jesus in a far-off land called Judea. Danny remembered Elder Johnson’s words and the way the young man’s eyes sparkled as he spoke. Danny also remembered how his heart had pounded with delight when the missionary told of the shepherds in the fields on that star-bright night long ago. Danny had thought about the story many times as he watched his own flock during the winter days of Christmas vacation.
Christmas! That word seemed so special to Danny now that he knew about Baby Jesus and that first Christmas night. The story of the Baby and the gentle shepherds who visited Him thrilled Danny as though he himself had stood guard that wondrous night. Danny shut his dark eyes, and the picture filled his mind—a manger, one bright star, the shaggy head of a donkey, a small newborn Child, and the white woolly curious sheep.
Suddenly the frantic bleating of a lamb brought Danny back to reality. He saw the small white animal struggling in the grip of a thorny cactus. The needles had thrust deep into the lamb’s wool and the animal was caught. Danny knelt beside the frightened lamb and gently began to remove the needles. It was slow work, but when the tiny lamb was finally freed, it rubbed its soft head against Danny’s knee in thanks. Then the lamb scampered off to join the flock already nearing the corral.
Danny’s moccasined feet moved quickly over the thin crust of snow as he saw the thick smoke rising from the small mud chimney. Soon he would be sitting in the warmth and light, and the chill of the night air would be forgotten as he snuggled beneath the heavy sheepskins on his bed.
The sheep bells jangled in time to Danny’s steady steps. Their Christmas magic took Danny back to the small classroom again, and he seemed to hear once more how Elder Johnson had finished the wonderful story. Danny could remember the tender words and the question that followed as the elder looked into the eager faces about him and smiled, saying, “Jesus loves you. How will you love Him?”
Danny sighed as he pondered those words for the hundredth time. What could he do to show the love and happiness that filled him when he thought of that first Christmas. He knew that money could purchase many gifts, but Danny had no money. “No,” he sighed to himself, “I have no money, and so I can give no gifts.”
Soon the sheep found their way into the protection of the corral and quickly began to bed themselves down. Danny closed the wooden gate and then paused for a moment. He looked carefully at the sheep, counting them to be sure they were all there. He knew that one lost sheep meant a return to the grazing grounds and a long search until the stray was found and returned.
The door of the hogan swung open, and Danny’s mother, dressed in her warm velvet blouse and long skirt, was watching for him. Her smile was gentle as she gazed out at her eldest child and waited for him as he entered the warm dwelling. With hands outstretched to the fire, Danny smiled at his younger brothers and sisters as they looked up from their play.
Danny’s father knelt in one corner of the small round room. His delicate hammers and chisels lay about him as he worked his skill on the silver and turquoise. Danny felt a thrill of pride as he watched the slender fingers molding and shaping the metal into beautiful jewelry.
But a pang of sorrow shot through Danny as he looked upon these faces that were so dear to him. What gift of love did he have to give?
“Danny,” his mother’s soft voice called. “It’s Christmas Eve. Your father and I met with some missionaries while you were away to school. What they have told us is good and feels right in our hearts.” She paused and glanced at Danny’s father.
The man stopped his work and looked up at his oldest son. The words he spoke were low and steady. “The elders have told us that you learned the story of the first Christmas while at school.”
The children stopped their play and gazed in admiration at their brother, who was learning many new things at the far-off school.
Danny felt a glow in his heart. He seemed to hear the joyous ringing of the sheep bells, and the picture of the manger and the gentle shepherds returned to him as he thought about the first Christmas. A voice seemed to whisper, “This is the gift of love you can give.” At last Danny knew what gift he could give to his beloved family!
Danny turned to his father, who gently smiled and then said, “We have been waiting for you. Come, my son, and tell us the story of Jesus.”
some things are almost too painful to think about. To see our Savior mocked and murdered is one such thing. And yet, through the Scriptures, we should visit Calvary from time to time. We must never forget Jesus died so that we might live and live more abundantly.
SCRIPTURE: Matthew 27; 28-30Luke 23:33-34Mark 15:29-32
SUGGESTION: Read the accounts of the crucifixion in the four Gospels, and then write your feelings in your journal.
SONG: "There Is A Green Hill Far Away", Hymns, page 194
Patricia Bronson Brower, “Danny’s Gift,” Friend, Dec 1972, 22
The stars hung in the icy night like frozen teardrops above the Arizona desert mesa. Old mother moon rode high, clustering her starry children about her as if to warm their chilly faces. On the snow-crusted earth below, Danny Yazzi shivered in his worn jacket as he chanted a Navajo lullaby to the small band of sheep milling around him.
As Danny stamped his feet to keep warm, he thought of the mud hogan where his mother would be preparing mutton stew. His brothers and sisters would be playing about the black pot-bellied stove, turned a cherry red by the crackling fire, while his father pounded thin slices of silver into delicate bracelets and rings.
Danny whistled softly, and the white animals, shaggy with thick wool, began to move down the sloping side of the mesa, brushing against one another. Grazing time had ended for another wintry day, and now they turned homeward toward a corral.
As Danny began to move behind them, the sheep bells fastened about his waist jingled merrily. The sounds of the bells rang through the still night. Tonight the bells seemed to ring with a different tone. Even the animals seemed to listen to the new sweet sound of joy.
Danny’s thoughts went back to the day of his last Primary class. He and seven other Navajo children had sat before a tall slender missionary who told them the story of the birth of Jesus in a far-off land called Judea. Danny remembered Elder Johnson’s words and the way the young man’s eyes sparkled as he spoke. Danny also remembered how his heart had pounded with delight when the missionary told of the shepherds in the fields on that star-bright night long ago. Danny had thought about the story many times as he watched his own flock during the winter days of Christmas vacation.
Christmas! That word seemed so special to Danny now that he knew about Baby Jesus and that first Christmas night. The story of the Baby and the gentle shepherds who visited Him thrilled Danny as though he himself had stood guard that wondrous night. Danny shut his dark eyes, and the picture filled his mind—a manger, one bright star, the shaggy head of a donkey, a small newborn Child, and the white woolly curious sheep.
Suddenly the frantic bleating of a lamb brought Danny back to reality. He saw the small white animal struggling in the grip of a thorny cactus. The needles had thrust deep into the lamb’s wool and the animal was caught. Danny knelt beside the frightened lamb and gently began to remove the needles. It was slow work, but when the tiny lamb was finally freed, it rubbed its soft head against Danny’s knee in thanks. Then the lamb scampered off to join the flock already nearing the corral.
Danny’s moccasined feet moved quickly over the thin crust of snow as he saw the thick smoke rising from the small mud chimney. Soon he would be sitting in the warmth and light, and the chill of the night air would be forgotten as he snuggled beneath the heavy sheepskins on his bed.
The sheep bells jangled in time to Danny’s steady steps. Their Christmas magic took Danny back to the small classroom again, and he seemed to hear once more how Elder Johnson had finished the wonderful story. Danny could remember the tender words and the question that followed as the elder looked into the eager faces about him and smiled, saying, “Jesus loves you. How will you love Him?”
Danny sighed as he pondered those words for the hundredth time. What could he do to show the love and happiness that filled him when he thought of that first Christmas. He knew that money could purchase many gifts, but Danny had no money. “No,” he sighed to himself, “I have no money, and so I can give no gifts.”
Soon the sheep found their way into the protection of the corral and quickly began to bed themselves down. Danny closed the wooden gate and then paused for a moment. He looked carefully at the sheep, counting them to be sure they were all there. He knew that one lost sheep meant a return to the grazing grounds and a long search until the stray was found and returned.
The door of the hogan swung open, and Danny’s mother, dressed in her warm velvet blouse and long skirt, was watching for him. Her smile was gentle as she gazed out at her eldest child and waited for him as he entered the warm dwelling. With hands outstretched to the fire, Danny smiled at his younger brothers and sisters as they looked up from their play.
Danny’s father knelt in one corner of the small round room. His delicate hammers and chisels lay about him as he worked his skill on the silver and turquoise. Danny felt a thrill of pride as he watched the slender fingers molding and shaping the metal into beautiful jewelry.
But a pang of sorrow shot through Danny as he looked upon these faces that were so dear to him. What gift of love did he have to give?
“Danny,” his mother’s soft voice called. “It’s Christmas Eve. Your father and I met with some missionaries while you were away to school. What they have told us is good and feels right in our hearts.” She paused and glanced at Danny’s father.
The man stopped his work and looked up at his oldest son. The words he spoke were low and steady. “The elders have told us that you learned the story of the first Christmas while at school.”
The children stopped their play and gazed in admiration at their brother, who was learning many new things at the far-off school.
Danny felt a glow in his heart. He seemed to hear the joyous ringing of the sheep bells, and the picture of the manger and the gentle shepherds returned to him as he thought about the first Christmas. A voice seemed to whisper, “This is the gift of love you can give.” At last Danny knew what gift he could give to his beloved family!
Danny turned to his father, who gently smiled and then said, “We have been waiting for you. Come, my son, and tell us the story of Jesus.”
Dec. 19
Dec.19
The greatest victory of all time was not won on a battle field but in a quiet hillside garden.
We cannot fully understand the cost of that triumph, but as Christmas draws near we should at least try.
SCRIPTURE: Matthew 26:39D & C 19:16-19
SUGGESTION: Accept the gift of forgiveness. Pray to Heavenly Father about some weakness and ask for help in repenting of it.
SONG: " How Great Thou Art", Hymns, Page 86
Jeanne W. Pittman, “A Christmas Horse,” Friend, Dec 1980, 10
Nancy was excited just thinking about a horse. My very own horse for Christmas! She could almost feel its velvety-soft flanks and see its thick mane and tail streaming in the wind. And the rhythmic pounding of hoofbeats along the dusty trails near her home were just as real in her ears. “Oh, this is going to be the most wonderful Christmas in the whole world!” she murmured.
Quietly, Nancy opened the door to her father’s study and tiptoed over to his desk. She clutched the huge pickle jar, stuffed full of dollar bills and jingling with quarters, nickels, and dimes. It was a whole year’s allowance and money from babysitting and doing special chores—half the cost of a horse, as Mom and Dad had agreed. Now when they contributed their half, she could buy her horse.
“Dad?” she queried. She knew he heard her come in. But he just sat with his elbows on the desk and his forehead resting on his hands. Nancy put the pickle jar down in front of him. “Dad?” she called again.
Her father turned the jar slowly with his hand and looked up. Nancy was alarmed to see his eyes glistening with tears.
She wrapped her arms comfortingly around his neck. “What’s wrong, Dad? What’s happened?” she asked anxiously.
“Nancy,” Dad began, but his voice choked. “Sweetheart,” he started once more, “I know we made a promise to you about your horse, but …”
But what? she worried. They wouldn’t break their promise. I’ve worked so hard.
“Darling,” Dad continued, “we never dreamed they’d close the plant where I work. I have found another job, but it’s on the coast, and we have to move. I’m so sorry, Nancy.”
“That’s all right, Dad.” Nancy planted a big kiss on her father’s cheek. “I can wait for my horse until we move. There’s still time before Christmas.”
“Nancy, there isn’t room in the city for a horse.”
Nancy was beginning to feel desperate. She just had to have a horse. It was about the most important thing in her life. She had saved so long for one. “We could board it at a stable,” she persisted.
“No, dear, that’s not possible. There probably aren’t any stables near where we’ll be living. Even if there were, it would be too expensive. As it is, moving is going to cost so much I’m afraid we won’t be having much Christmas this year. I’m sorry.”
Hot tears squeezed from Nancy’s eyes. She grabbed the pickle jar and ran from the room.
Her sister Emmie was waiting outside the door, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “When do you get your horse?” she asked.
“Oh, be quiet,” snapped Nancy as she dashed past Emmie.
This is turning into the worst Christmas of my life! she fumed. It just isn’t fair!
In the days that followed, Nancy felt so upset that she could hardly talk to her parents. “They just don’t understand how much this means to me,” she complained to Emmie.
However, as the family started moving into their new house in the city, Nancy began to feel guilty. She realized that it really wasn’t her parents’ fault that they had to leave their old home.
“But a promise is a promise!” she wailed to Emmie.
Emmie didn’t pay much attention to Nancy’s feeling sorry for herself. She and Bobby and Ted were too busy thinking about Christmas, which was almost here. The boys made long lists of toys they hoped to get. One day when her parents didn’t know anyone was looking, Nancy saw tears glistening in the corners of their red-rimmed eyes.
“We won’t be having much Christmas this year,” she remembered Father had said.
Nancy suddenly felt very ashamed. There was still Christmas baking and carol singing. And they spent days making gifts for each other. Their traditional nativity scene was already in its place on the mantel. And every night when Mom and Dad tucked them into bed, they were reminded of the special feeling of love for Jesus and their family, and not just the anticipation of presents under the tree.
Nancy and Emmie were old enough to understand, but Bobby and Ted kept expecting a Christmas with lots of presents.
It wasn’t until the afternoon before Christmas that Nancy thought of an exciting plan. As she shared it with Emmie, the excitement bubbled out into loud giggles.
Nancy emptied the pickle jar into her purse, and she and Emmie took the bus to the shopping center. All afternoon they trudged in and out of stores buying Christmas gifts.
“We needed a horse to haul all this stuff home,” groaned Emmie later as they wrapped the last of the packages and hid them in the back of their closet.
“Mom and Dad are sure going to be surprised when they discover I got my horse after all,” Nancy said with a grin. Then the girls collapsed, exhausted, on the bed.
Christmas morning, Mom and Dad woke everyone with an extra hug and kiss.
“Nancy,” Father said as he put his arm around her shoulder, “Merry Christmas, honey. And thanks for being pleasant and understanding.”
Down the stairs Nancy and Emmie followed their brothers. They looked at each other and covered their mouths to keep from laughing.
“Oh, wow!” said Ted as he saw the pile of presents beneath the tree.
“Whoopee!” shrieked Bobby as he ripped the ribbons and paper off a big red fire engine.
“Oh, my gracious!” cried Mom and Dad together, their eyes bright with surprise.
Nancy and Emmie grinned and plopped down beside the tree to hand out presents.
“I don’t understand,” said Dad.
There were shiny new trucks for the boys, a doll with lots of clothes and a buggy for Emmie, puzzles and games for the whole family, perfume and slippers for Mom, and spicy shaving lotion and a bathrobe for Dad.
Nancy could feel her heart warming with happiness. Christmas has never made me feel this good before, she thought. She stroked the cool, smooth flanks of a little china horse bank that Emmie had given her. Inside clinked two quarters and a nickel, all that was left of the pickle jar money.
“See,” cried Nancy, holding up the bank, “I got my horse after all!”
“I just can’t believe it,” said Dad, shaking his head.
“I think I can,” said Mom, her eyes misty with tears. She pulled Nancy into her arms and held her so tightly that Nancy’s ribs felt as though they would snap. Her heart felt so full that it was about to burst, and she couldn’t speak if she had wanted to.
The greatest victory of all time was not won on a battle field but in a quiet hillside garden.
We cannot fully understand the cost of that triumph, but as Christmas draws near we should at least try.
SCRIPTURE: Matthew 26:39D & C 19:16-19
SUGGESTION: Accept the gift of forgiveness. Pray to Heavenly Father about some weakness and ask for help in repenting of it.
SONG: " How Great Thou Art", Hymns, Page 86
Jeanne W. Pittman, “A Christmas Horse,” Friend, Dec 1980, 10
Nancy was excited just thinking about a horse. My very own horse for Christmas! She could almost feel its velvety-soft flanks and see its thick mane and tail streaming in the wind. And the rhythmic pounding of hoofbeats along the dusty trails near her home were just as real in her ears. “Oh, this is going to be the most wonderful Christmas in the whole world!” she murmured.
Quietly, Nancy opened the door to her father’s study and tiptoed over to his desk. She clutched the huge pickle jar, stuffed full of dollar bills and jingling with quarters, nickels, and dimes. It was a whole year’s allowance and money from babysitting and doing special chores—half the cost of a horse, as Mom and Dad had agreed. Now when they contributed their half, she could buy her horse.
“Dad?” she queried. She knew he heard her come in. But he just sat with his elbows on the desk and his forehead resting on his hands. Nancy put the pickle jar down in front of him. “Dad?” she called again.
Her father turned the jar slowly with his hand and looked up. Nancy was alarmed to see his eyes glistening with tears.
She wrapped her arms comfortingly around his neck. “What’s wrong, Dad? What’s happened?” she asked anxiously.
“Nancy,” Dad began, but his voice choked. “Sweetheart,” he started once more, “I know we made a promise to you about your horse, but …”
But what? she worried. They wouldn’t break their promise. I’ve worked so hard.
“Darling,” Dad continued, “we never dreamed they’d close the plant where I work. I have found another job, but it’s on the coast, and we have to move. I’m so sorry, Nancy.”
“That’s all right, Dad.” Nancy planted a big kiss on her father’s cheek. “I can wait for my horse until we move. There’s still time before Christmas.”
“Nancy, there isn’t room in the city for a horse.”
Nancy was beginning to feel desperate. She just had to have a horse. It was about the most important thing in her life. She had saved so long for one. “We could board it at a stable,” she persisted.
“No, dear, that’s not possible. There probably aren’t any stables near where we’ll be living. Even if there were, it would be too expensive. As it is, moving is going to cost so much I’m afraid we won’t be having much Christmas this year. I’m sorry.”
Hot tears squeezed from Nancy’s eyes. She grabbed the pickle jar and ran from the room.
Her sister Emmie was waiting outside the door, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “When do you get your horse?” she asked.
“Oh, be quiet,” snapped Nancy as she dashed past Emmie.
This is turning into the worst Christmas of my life! she fumed. It just isn’t fair!
In the days that followed, Nancy felt so upset that she could hardly talk to her parents. “They just don’t understand how much this means to me,” she complained to Emmie.
However, as the family started moving into their new house in the city, Nancy began to feel guilty. She realized that it really wasn’t her parents’ fault that they had to leave their old home.
“But a promise is a promise!” she wailed to Emmie.
Emmie didn’t pay much attention to Nancy’s feeling sorry for herself. She and Bobby and Ted were too busy thinking about Christmas, which was almost here. The boys made long lists of toys they hoped to get. One day when her parents didn’t know anyone was looking, Nancy saw tears glistening in the corners of their red-rimmed eyes.
“We won’t be having much Christmas this year,” she remembered Father had said.
Nancy suddenly felt very ashamed. There was still Christmas baking and carol singing. And they spent days making gifts for each other. Their traditional nativity scene was already in its place on the mantel. And every night when Mom and Dad tucked them into bed, they were reminded of the special feeling of love for Jesus and their family, and not just the anticipation of presents under the tree.
Nancy and Emmie were old enough to understand, but Bobby and Ted kept expecting a Christmas with lots of presents.
It wasn’t until the afternoon before Christmas that Nancy thought of an exciting plan. As she shared it with Emmie, the excitement bubbled out into loud giggles.
Nancy emptied the pickle jar into her purse, and she and Emmie took the bus to the shopping center. All afternoon they trudged in and out of stores buying Christmas gifts.
“We needed a horse to haul all this stuff home,” groaned Emmie later as they wrapped the last of the packages and hid them in the back of their closet.
“Mom and Dad are sure going to be surprised when they discover I got my horse after all,” Nancy said with a grin. Then the girls collapsed, exhausted, on the bed.
Christmas morning, Mom and Dad woke everyone with an extra hug and kiss.
“Nancy,” Father said as he put his arm around her shoulder, “Merry Christmas, honey. And thanks for being pleasant and understanding.”
Down the stairs Nancy and Emmie followed their brothers. They looked at each other and covered their mouths to keep from laughing.
“Oh, wow!” said Ted as he saw the pile of presents beneath the tree.
“Whoopee!” shrieked Bobby as he ripped the ribbons and paper off a big red fire engine.
“Oh, my gracious!” cried Mom and Dad together, their eyes bright with surprise.
Nancy and Emmie grinned and plopped down beside the tree to hand out presents.
“I don’t understand,” said Dad.
There were shiny new trucks for the boys, a doll with lots of clothes and a buggy for Emmie, puzzles and games for the whole family, perfume and slippers for Mom, and spicy shaving lotion and a bathrobe for Dad.
Nancy could feel her heart warming with happiness. Christmas has never made me feel this good before, she thought. She stroked the cool, smooth flanks of a little china horse bank that Emmie had given her. Inside clinked two quarters and a nickel, all that was left of the pickle jar money.
“See,” cried Nancy, holding up the bank, “I got my horse after all!”
“I just can’t believe it,” said Dad, shaking his head.
“I think I can,” said Mom, her eyes misty with tears. She pulled Nancy into her arms and held her so tightly that Nancy’s ribs felt as though they would snap. Her heart felt so full that it was about to burst, and she couldn’t speak if she had wanted to.
Dec. 17
Dec.17
Have you ever wished you could be baptized again and start over fresh? When we repent of our sins and partake of the sacrament worthily, we renew our covenants and are clean.
SCRIPTURE: 3 Nephi 18:1,3,5,7,9-11
SUGGESTION: As you partake of the sacrament, make a special effort to think about the Savior.
SONG: " While Of These Emblems We Partake", Hymns, Page 173
Mary's Dream
I had a dream, Joseph. I don't understand it, not really, but I think it was about a birthday celebration for our Son. I think that was what it was all about. The people had been preparing for it for about six weeks. They had decorated the house and bought new clothes. They'd gone shopping many times and bought elaborate gifts. It was peculiar, though, because the presents weren't for our Son. They wrapped them in beautiful paper and tied them with lovely bows and stacked them under a tree. Yes, a tree, Joseph, right in their house. They'd decorated the tree also. The branches were full of glowing balls and sparkling ornaments. There was a figure on the top of the tree. It looked like an angel might look. Oh, it was beautiful. Everyone was laughing and happy. They were all excited about the gifts. They gave the gifts to each other, Joseph, not our Son. I don't think they even knew Him. They never mentioned His name. Doesn't it seem odd for people to go to all that trouble to celebrate someone's birthday if they don't know Him. I had the strangest feeling that if our Son had gone to this celebration He would have been intruding. Everything was so beautiful, Joseph, and everyone so full of cheer, but it made me want to cry. How sad for Jesus-not to be wanted at His own birthday celebration. I'm glad it was only a dream. How terrible, Joseph, IF it had been real.
Have you ever wished you could be baptized again and start over fresh? When we repent of our sins and partake of the sacrament worthily, we renew our covenants and are clean.
SCRIPTURE: 3 Nephi 18:1,3,5,7,9-11
SUGGESTION: As you partake of the sacrament, make a special effort to think about the Savior.
SONG: " While Of These Emblems We Partake", Hymns, Page 173
Mary's Dream
I had a dream, Joseph. I don't understand it, not really, but I think it was about a birthday celebration for our Son. I think that was what it was all about. The people had been preparing for it for about six weeks. They had decorated the house and bought new clothes. They'd gone shopping many times and bought elaborate gifts. It was peculiar, though, because the presents weren't for our Son. They wrapped them in beautiful paper and tied them with lovely bows and stacked them under a tree. Yes, a tree, Joseph, right in their house. They'd decorated the tree also. The branches were full of glowing balls and sparkling ornaments. There was a figure on the top of the tree. It looked like an angel might look. Oh, it was beautiful. Everyone was laughing and happy. They were all excited about the gifts. They gave the gifts to each other, Joseph, not our Son. I don't think they even knew Him. They never mentioned His name. Doesn't it seem odd for people to go to all that trouble to celebrate someone's birthday if they don't know Him. I had the strangest feeling that if our Son had gone to this celebration He would have been intruding. Everything was so beautiful, Joseph, and everyone so full of cheer, but it made me want to cry. How sad for Jesus-not to be wanted at His own birthday celebration. I'm glad it was only a dream. How terrible, Joseph, IF it had been real.
Dec. 18
Dec.18
We all have storms in our lives -- storms of fear and anger and regret -- storms at home and work and at school. The Master's hand can calm all our tempers.
SCRIPTURE: Matthew 8:23-26
SUGGESTION: Be a calming influence today. Try extra hard to control your temper.
SONG: "Master, The Tempest Is Raging", Hymns, Page 105.
Geraldine T. Fielding, “The Most Unusual, Quite Remarkable, One-of-a-Kind Christmas Stocking,” Friend, Dec 2007, 4–7
(Based on a true story)
Rachel peeked around the wheel of the covered wagon and whispered, “Psst, Mary Ann!”
When her friend did not respond, she spoke louder: “Mary Ann, come here!”
Mary Ann was sitting on an old quilt tending her baby brother. She looked up. “I can’t come there,” she said. “My mama told me not to move off this quilt until she was through cooking the biscuits.”
Rachel made her way to the quilt, which was spread on the ground under a shady tree. They were traveling west with their families in a wagon train. They had left Missouri with everything they owned loaded into the wagons. Rachel was ready to cry as she sat down on the quilt.
“I’ve looked and looked,” Rachel groaned. “It’s gone!”
“What’s gone?” Mary Ann asked.
“I’ve lost my knitting!” Rachel said. Rachel was a very good knitter. She kept a ball of yarn in her apron pocket and knitted as she walked behind the wagon. “I had a stocking almost half done. Mary Ann, what will I do?”
“Now, calm down,” Mary Ann said in her best motherly voice. “Stop and think. Where did you have it last? Did you look in your little wooden trunk? Sometimes you put it in there.”
“I looked everywhere,” Rachel said. “My last ball of yarn and my metal knitting needles are gone. My papa traded a whole pound of nails for those knitting needles in St. Louis. He’ll never forgive me for losing them.”
“I’m sure he will understand,” Mary Ann said. “But I’ll help you look in your wagon tonight after supper.”
The girls searched the family’s wagon together, but they didn’t find Rachel’s knitting.
“How can I tell Mama and Papa?” Rachel asked.
“Tell us what?” a voice asked.
The girls whirled around. There was Rachel’s father, standing next to the wagon checking the level of the water barrel.
“Oh, Papa,” Rachel sobbed. “I am so careless, and I have done such an awful thing. I’ve lost my metal knitting needles, my yarn, and a half-finished sock.”
Rachel’s father put his arms around her. “That is sad, but it’s not the end of the world.”
The following Saturday when the wagon train stopped for the night, it was announced that they would camp there until Tuesday to give the horses and oxen a chance to rest, and to let the men make repairs to the wagons and harnesses.
Rachel tried to keep busy. She helped her mother cook. She washed clothes in the nearby stream. She helped Mary Ann with her little brother. Rachel sighed. “If I had my knitting, I could have had that stocking almost finished,” she told her friend.
“Never mind,” Mary Ann said. “When we get to the Salt Lake Valley, you can get some new needles and yarn.”
“I hope so,” Rachel said sadly.
“Rachel, please come here,” her father called. “I have a surprise for you.” He was standing near the campfire with his hands behind his back. He brought out one hand. “I whittled a new pair of knitting needles for you,” he said. “They are not as sturdy as the metal ones, but I think they will do. They are made of alder wood, and they are quite straight and smooth.”
Rachel squealed with delight. “Oh, Papa, they are beautiful!”
Then he brought out his other hand from behind his back. He was holding a ball of red yarn.
“Yarn! Where in the world did you get it?” Rachel asked.
“Sister Davis donated it. She said it was just taking up space in her sewing basket.” Her father smiled. “And here is a bit of green yarn that Sister Harper found, and a small ball of yellow from Sister Rogers.” He hugged his daughter. “Everyone felt so bad about you losing your knitting that they all found what scraps of yarn they could so that you could continue knitting the rest of the trip.”
“This is wonderful,” Rachel said. “I must tell everyone how much I appreciate it.” Rachel started off, but she turned around quickly and went back to her father. “Thank you so much for the knitting needles, Papa. I will take very good care of them.” Rachel ran off to show all the ladies of the wagon train the wonderful gift she had received.
As they walked along with the wagons, Rachel knitted and knitted. At night, Rachel held her needles and yarn safely in her pocket. “I’m not taking any chances with this knitting,” she told Mary Ann. “It is too special.”
The day finally came when they looked down into the Salt Lake Valley. They were relieved to have arrived before winter. The nights were getting colder and they knew that snow would not be long in coming.
“Did you finish the sock?” Brother Carter asked Rachel as he led his horses down the steep mountain trail.
“I did,” Rachel said. She pulled out her knitting to show him her finished work.
“Well, now, that is a most unusual stocking,” he said.
“I know.” Rachel laughed. “Papa called it ‘quite remarkable.’ ”
The knitted stocking had wide and narrow stripes in many different colors. Rachel looked at it thoughtfully. “It’s one of a kind,” she said. “There will never be another like this. I am going to hang it on the mantle at Christmastime when we get a house built. It will be my most unusual, quite remarkable, one-of-a-kind Christmas stocking!”
Rachel enjoyed hanging up her special Christmas stocking for many years. It was a colorful and happy reminder of her trip across the plains, and the generosity and kindness of her fellow travelers.
Thomas S. Monson, “Mark’s Train,” Friend, Oct 1977, 16
In about my tenth year, as Christmas approached, I yearned, as only a boy can yearn, for an electric train. My desire was not to receive the economical and everywhere-to-be-found windup train, but rather one that operated through the miracle of electricity.
The times were those of economic depression, yet Mother and Dad, through some sacrifice, presented to me on Christmas morning a beautiful electric train. For hours I operated the transformer, watching the engine first pull its cars forward, then push them backward around the track.
Mother entered the living room and told me that she had purchased a windup train for Widow Hansen’s boy Mark, who lived down the lane. I asked if I could see it. The engine was short and blocky, not long and sleek like the expensive one I had received.
However, I did take notice of the oil tanker that was part of his inexpensive set. My train had no such car, and I began to feel pangs of envy. I put up such a fuss that Mother succumbed to my pleadings and handed me the oil tanker and said, “If you need it more than Mark, you take it.” I put it with my train set and felt pleased with the result.
Mother and I took the remaining cars and the engine to the Hansens. Mark was a year or two older than I, but he had never anticipated such a gift and was thrilled beyond words. He would up his engine, and was overjoyed as the engine, two cars, and the caboose went around the track.
Then Mother glanced at me and wisely asked, “What do you think of Mark’s train, Tommy?”
I felt a keen sense of guilt as I became very much aware of my selfishness. I said to Mother, “Wait just a minute, I’ll be right back.”
As swiftly as my legs could carry me, I ran home, picked up the oil tanker plus another car of my own, ran back down the lane to the Hansen home, and said joyfully to Mark, “We forgot to bring two cars that should go with your train!”
Mark excitedly coupled the two cars to his set. I watched the engine make its labored way around the track, and as I did I felt a joy difficult to describe and impossible to forget.
We all have storms in our lives -- storms of fear and anger and regret -- storms at home and work and at school. The Master's hand can calm all our tempers.
SCRIPTURE: Matthew 8:23-26
SUGGESTION: Be a calming influence today. Try extra hard to control your temper.
SONG: "Master, The Tempest Is Raging", Hymns, Page 105.
Geraldine T. Fielding, “The Most Unusual, Quite Remarkable, One-of-a-Kind Christmas Stocking,” Friend, Dec 2007, 4–7
(Based on a true story)
Rachel peeked around the wheel of the covered wagon and whispered, “Psst, Mary Ann!”
When her friend did not respond, she spoke louder: “Mary Ann, come here!”
Mary Ann was sitting on an old quilt tending her baby brother. She looked up. “I can’t come there,” she said. “My mama told me not to move off this quilt until she was through cooking the biscuits.”
Rachel made her way to the quilt, which was spread on the ground under a shady tree. They were traveling west with their families in a wagon train. They had left Missouri with everything they owned loaded into the wagons. Rachel was ready to cry as she sat down on the quilt.
“I’ve looked and looked,” Rachel groaned. “It’s gone!”
“What’s gone?” Mary Ann asked.
“I’ve lost my knitting!” Rachel said. Rachel was a very good knitter. She kept a ball of yarn in her apron pocket and knitted as she walked behind the wagon. “I had a stocking almost half done. Mary Ann, what will I do?”
“Now, calm down,” Mary Ann said in her best motherly voice. “Stop and think. Where did you have it last? Did you look in your little wooden trunk? Sometimes you put it in there.”
“I looked everywhere,” Rachel said. “My last ball of yarn and my metal knitting needles are gone. My papa traded a whole pound of nails for those knitting needles in St. Louis. He’ll never forgive me for losing them.”
“I’m sure he will understand,” Mary Ann said. “But I’ll help you look in your wagon tonight after supper.”
The girls searched the family’s wagon together, but they didn’t find Rachel’s knitting.
“How can I tell Mama and Papa?” Rachel asked.
“Tell us what?” a voice asked.
The girls whirled around. There was Rachel’s father, standing next to the wagon checking the level of the water barrel.
“Oh, Papa,” Rachel sobbed. “I am so careless, and I have done such an awful thing. I’ve lost my metal knitting needles, my yarn, and a half-finished sock.”
Rachel’s father put his arms around her. “That is sad, but it’s not the end of the world.”
The following Saturday when the wagon train stopped for the night, it was announced that they would camp there until Tuesday to give the horses and oxen a chance to rest, and to let the men make repairs to the wagons and harnesses.
Rachel tried to keep busy. She helped her mother cook. She washed clothes in the nearby stream. She helped Mary Ann with her little brother. Rachel sighed. “If I had my knitting, I could have had that stocking almost finished,” she told her friend.
“Never mind,” Mary Ann said. “When we get to the Salt Lake Valley, you can get some new needles and yarn.”
“I hope so,” Rachel said sadly.
“Rachel, please come here,” her father called. “I have a surprise for you.” He was standing near the campfire with his hands behind his back. He brought out one hand. “I whittled a new pair of knitting needles for you,” he said. “They are not as sturdy as the metal ones, but I think they will do. They are made of alder wood, and they are quite straight and smooth.”
Rachel squealed with delight. “Oh, Papa, they are beautiful!”
Then he brought out his other hand from behind his back. He was holding a ball of red yarn.
“Yarn! Where in the world did you get it?” Rachel asked.
“Sister Davis donated it. She said it was just taking up space in her sewing basket.” Her father smiled. “And here is a bit of green yarn that Sister Harper found, and a small ball of yellow from Sister Rogers.” He hugged his daughter. “Everyone felt so bad about you losing your knitting that they all found what scraps of yarn they could so that you could continue knitting the rest of the trip.”
“This is wonderful,” Rachel said. “I must tell everyone how much I appreciate it.” Rachel started off, but she turned around quickly and went back to her father. “Thank you so much for the knitting needles, Papa. I will take very good care of them.” Rachel ran off to show all the ladies of the wagon train the wonderful gift she had received.
As they walked along with the wagons, Rachel knitted and knitted. At night, Rachel held her needles and yarn safely in her pocket. “I’m not taking any chances with this knitting,” she told Mary Ann. “It is too special.”
The day finally came when they looked down into the Salt Lake Valley. They were relieved to have arrived before winter. The nights were getting colder and they knew that snow would not be long in coming.
“Did you finish the sock?” Brother Carter asked Rachel as he led his horses down the steep mountain trail.
“I did,” Rachel said. She pulled out her knitting to show him her finished work.
“Well, now, that is a most unusual stocking,” he said.
“I know.” Rachel laughed. “Papa called it ‘quite remarkable.’ ”
The knitted stocking had wide and narrow stripes in many different colors. Rachel looked at it thoughtfully. “It’s one of a kind,” she said. “There will never be another like this. I am going to hang it on the mantle at Christmastime when we get a house built. It will be my most unusual, quite remarkable, one-of-a-kind Christmas stocking!”
Rachel enjoyed hanging up her special Christmas stocking for many years. It was a colorful and happy reminder of her trip across the plains, and the generosity and kindness of her fellow travelers.
Thomas S. Monson, “Mark’s Train,” Friend, Oct 1977, 16
In about my tenth year, as Christmas approached, I yearned, as only a boy can yearn, for an electric train. My desire was not to receive the economical and everywhere-to-be-found windup train, but rather one that operated through the miracle of electricity.
The times were those of economic depression, yet Mother and Dad, through some sacrifice, presented to me on Christmas morning a beautiful electric train. For hours I operated the transformer, watching the engine first pull its cars forward, then push them backward around the track.
Mother entered the living room and told me that she had purchased a windup train for Widow Hansen’s boy Mark, who lived down the lane. I asked if I could see it. The engine was short and blocky, not long and sleek like the expensive one I had received.
However, I did take notice of the oil tanker that was part of his inexpensive set. My train had no such car, and I began to feel pangs of envy. I put up such a fuss that Mother succumbed to my pleadings and handed me the oil tanker and said, “If you need it more than Mark, you take it.” I put it with my train set and felt pleased with the result.
Mother and I took the remaining cars and the engine to the Hansens. Mark was a year or two older than I, but he had never anticipated such a gift and was thrilled beyond words. He would up his engine, and was overjoyed as the engine, two cars, and the caboose went around the track.
Then Mother glanced at me and wisely asked, “What do you think of Mark’s train, Tommy?”
I felt a keen sense of guilt as I became very much aware of my selfishness. I said to Mother, “Wait just a minute, I’ll be right back.”
As swiftly as my legs could carry me, I ran home, picked up the oil tanker plus another car of my own, ran back down the lane to the Hansen home, and said joyfully to Mark, “We forgot to bring two cars that should go with your train!”
Mark excitedly coupled the two cars to his set. I watched the engine make its labored way around the track, and as I did I felt a joy difficult to describe and impossible to forget.
Dec. 14
Dec.14
Christmas could hardly be Christmas without children. They are so much of the magic in the season. The Savior also loved children. In both the New World and the old, he called the little ones to him.
SCRIPTURE: 3 Nephi 17:12,21,24
SUGGESTION: Do something fun with a child.
SONG" I Think When I Read That Sweet Story", Children's Songbook, Page 56
Trouble At The Inn
For years now whenever Christmas pageants are talked about in a certain little town in the Midwest, someone is sure to mention the name of Wallace Purling. Wally’s performance in one annual production of the Nativity Play has slipped into the realm of legend. But the old-timers who were in the audience that night never tire of recalling exactly what happened.
Wally was nine that year and in the second grade, though he should have been in the fourth. Most people in town knew that he had difficulty in keeping up. He was big and clumsy, slow in movement and mind. Still, Wally was well liked by the other children in his class, all of whom were smaller than he, though the boys had trouble hiding their irritation when Wally would ask to play ball with them or any game, for that matter, in which winning was important.
Most often they’d find a way to keep him out but Wally would hang around anyway, not sulking, just hoping. He was always a helpful boy, a willing and smiling one, and the natural protector, paradoxically, of the underdog. Sometimes if the older boys chased the younger ones away, it would always be Wally who’d say, Can’t they stay? They're no bother. �
Wally fancied the idea of being a shepherd with a flute in the Christmas pageant that year, but the play’s director, Miss Lambard, assigned him to a more important role. After all, she reasoned, the Innkeeper did not have too many lines, and Wally’s size would make his refusal of lodging to Joseph more forceful.
And so it happened that the usual large, partisan audience gathered for the town’s yearly extravaganza of crooks and crèches, of beards, crowns, halos and a whole stage full of squeaky voices. No one on stage or off was more caught up in the magic of the night than Wallace Purling. They said later that he stood in the wings and watched the performance with such fascination that from time to time Miss Lambard had to make sure he did not wander onstage before his cue.
Then came the time when Joseph appeared, slowly, tenderly guiding Mary to the door of the inn. Joseph knocked hard on the wooden door set into the painted backdrop. Wally the Innkeeper was there, waiting.
What do you want? Wally said, swinging the door open with a brusque gesture.
We seek lodging.
Seek it elsewhere. Wally looked straight ahead but spoke vigorously. The inn is filled.
Sir, we have asked everywhere in vain. We have traveled far and are very weary.
There is no room in this inn for you. � Wally looked properly stern.
Please, good innkeeper, this is my wife, Mary. She is heavy with child and needs a place to rest. Surely you must have some small corner for her. She is so tired. �
Now for the first time, the Innkeeper relaxed his stiff stance and looked down at Mary. With that, there was a long pause, long enough to make the audience a bit tense with embarrassment.
No! Be gone! the prompter whispered from the wings.
No! � Wally repeated automatically. Be gone!
Joseph sadly placed his arm around Mary and Mary laid her head upon her husband’s shoulder and the two of them started to move away. The Innkeeper did not return inside the inn, however. Wally stood there in the doorway watching the forlorn couple. His mouth was open, his brow creased with concern, his eyes filling unmistakably with tears.
Don’t go, Joseph, � Wally called out. Bring Mary back. And Wallace Purling's face grew into a bright smile. You can have MY room.
Some people in town thought that the pageant had been ruined. Yet there were others many, many others who considered it the most Christmas of all Christmas pageants they had ever seen.
Dina Donohue
Christmas could hardly be Christmas without children. They are so much of the magic in the season. The Savior also loved children. In both the New World and the old, he called the little ones to him.
SCRIPTURE: 3 Nephi 17:12,21,24
SUGGESTION: Do something fun with a child.
SONG" I Think When I Read That Sweet Story", Children's Songbook, Page 56
Trouble At The Inn
For years now whenever Christmas pageants are talked about in a certain little town in the Midwest, someone is sure to mention the name of Wallace Purling. Wally’s performance in one annual production of the Nativity Play has slipped into the realm of legend. But the old-timers who were in the audience that night never tire of recalling exactly what happened.
Wally was nine that year and in the second grade, though he should have been in the fourth. Most people in town knew that he had difficulty in keeping up. He was big and clumsy, slow in movement and mind. Still, Wally was well liked by the other children in his class, all of whom were smaller than he, though the boys had trouble hiding their irritation when Wally would ask to play ball with them or any game, for that matter, in which winning was important.
Most often they’d find a way to keep him out but Wally would hang around anyway, not sulking, just hoping. He was always a helpful boy, a willing and smiling one, and the natural protector, paradoxically, of the underdog. Sometimes if the older boys chased the younger ones away, it would always be Wally who’d say, Can’t they stay? They're no bother. �
Wally fancied the idea of being a shepherd with a flute in the Christmas pageant that year, but the play’s director, Miss Lambard, assigned him to a more important role. After all, she reasoned, the Innkeeper did not have too many lines, and Wally’s size would make his refusal of lodging to Joseph more forceful.
And so it happened that the usual large, partisan audience gathered for the town’s yearly extravaganza of crooks and crèches, of beards, crowns, halos and a whole stage full of squeaky voices. No one on stage or off was more caught up in the magic of the night than Wallace Purling. They said later that he stood in the wings and watched the performance with such fascination that from time to time Miss Lambard had to make sure he did not wander onstage before his cue.
Then came the time when Joseph appeared, slowly, tenderly guiding Mary to the door of the inn. Joseph knocked hard on the wooden door set into the painted backdrop. Wally the Innkeeper was there, waiting.
What do you want? Wally said, swinging the door open with a brusque gesture.
We seek lodging.
Seek it elsewhere. Wally looked straight ahead but spoke vigorously. The inn is filled.
Sir, we have asked everywhere in vain. We have traveled far and are very weary.
There is no room in this inn for you. � Wally looked properly stern.
Please, good innkeeper, this is my wife, Mary. She is heavy with child and needs a place to rest. Surely you must have some small corner for her. She is so tired. �
Now for the first time, the Innkeeper relaxed his stiff stance and looked down at Mary. With that, there was a long pause, long enough to make the audience a bit tense with embarrassment.
No! Be gone! the prompter whispered from the wings.
No! � Wally repeated automatically. Be gone!
Joseph sadly placed his arm around Mary and Mary laid her head upon her husband’s shoulder and the two of them started to move away. The Innkeeper did not return inside the inn, however. Wally stood there in the doorway watching the forlorn couple. His mouth was open, his brow creased with concern, his eyes filling unmistakably with tears.
Don’t go, Joseph, � Wally called out. Bring Mary back. And Wallace Purling's face grew into a bright smile. You can have MY room.
Some people in town thought that the pageant had been ruined. Yet there were others many, many others who considered it the most Christmas of all Christmas pageants they had ever seen.
Dina Donohue
Dec. 15
Dec.15
Turmoil and strife, combat and competition-- our world is full of the consequences of man. But the Savior told us how to try to succeed, through peace on earth and good will toward men.
SCRIPTURE: John 14:15Matthew 7:12 Mark 10:43-44John 13:34-35
SUGGESTION: Today tell someone that you love them. Express love for the Lord in your prayers.
SONG: " Love One Another", Hymns, page 308
'The Tale of Three Trees'
Three little trees stood high upon a mountain discussing their dreams for the future. The first little tree looked up at the dazzling night sky and said, "I want to carry the treasure of kings and queens. I want to be beautiful. I want to be filled with all the riches in the world."
The nearby stream caught the second little tree's eye. "I want to be a mighty sailing vessel," he said. "I want to sail in the roaring oceans, roam the high seas, and deliver kings and queens safely to their destinations."
The third little tree loved the mountaintop. "I want to stay right here and grow and grow and grow," she said. "I want the people that pass by to look at me touching heaven and think of God."
One day, many years later, three lumberjacks came to help the three trees with the next season of their lives.
The first tree, now beautiful, was cut down. "I will become the most beautiful treasure chest," he thought. "I will get to hold all of the world's riches."
The mighty second tree was cut down. "I will now sail the roaring oceans," thought the second tree. "I will be the mightiest of all sailing vessels."
The third tree, with her branches stretched toward heaven, was also cut down. Together with the other two trees, she was taken down the lovely hillside.
The first tree arrived at a carpenter's shop. The beautiful tree was aglow with excitement. But he wasn't made into a treasure chest. The skillful carpenter made the beautiful tree into an ordinary feeding trough.
The second tree was brought to a shipyard. The mighty second tree thought, "Now I will be the most vigorous of vessels." But the strong second tree was made into a simple little fishing boat.
The third tree was brought to a lumberyard. There she was made into beams and put aside. "Why did this happen?" thought the third tree. "All I ever wanted was to touch heaven."
As the weeks passed, their dreams began to fade from memory. However, one magical night brought the first tree's dream to life. A young mother put her newborn into the trough. "This manger is perfect," said the mother to her husband. And the first tree knew he was cradling the most important treasure ever.
One night the fishing boat was used by a tired traveler and his friends. They quickly fell asleep, and the small boat floated out to sea. The sea became rough, and a thunderstorm was brewing. This frightened the second tree. If only he were a mighty vessel and could withstand the force of the storm! The traveler was awakened by the storm, and he stretched out his arms and said, "Peace." The sea became calm and the thunderstorm vanished. It was then that the second tree realized he was carrying the Almighty King.
On a Friday morning, the third tree was taken by soldiers and carried through a hostile mob. She trembled with fear and distaste as a man's hands were nailed to her. But the following Sunday the sun rose. The earth was full of joy. She realized that everything had changed because of God's love.
The first tree was made beautiful.
The second tree was made mighty.
The third tree made people think of God.
Turmoil and strife, combat and competition-- our world is full of the consequences of man. But the Savior told us how to try to succeed, through peace on earth and good will toward men.
SCRIPTURE: John 14:15Matthew 7:12 Mark 10:43-44John 13:34-35
SUGGESTION: Today tell someone that you love them. Express love for the Lord in your prayers.
SONG: " Love One Another", Hymns, page 308
'The Tale of Three Trees'
Three little trees stood high upon a mountain discussing their dreams for the future. The first little tree looked up at the dazzling night sky and said, "I want to carry the treasure of kings and queens. I want to be beautiful. I want to be filled with all the riches in the world."
The nearby stream caught the second little tree's eye. "I want to be a mighty sailing vessel," he said. "I want to sail in the roaring oceans, roam the high seas, and deliver kings and queens safely to their destinations."
The third little tree loved the mountaintop. "I want to stay right here and grow and grow and grow," she said. "I want the people that pass by to look at me touching heaven and think of God."
One day, many years later, three lumberjacks came to help the three trees with the next season of their lives.
The first tree, now beautiful, was cut down. "I will become the most beautiful treasure chest," he thought. "I will get to hold all of the world's riches."
The mighty second tree was cut down. "I will now sail the roaring oceans," thought the second tree. "I will be the mightiest of all sailing vessels."
The third tree, with her branches stretched toward heaven, was also cut down. Together with the other two trees, she was taken down the lovely hillside.
The first tree arrived at a carpenter's shop. The beautiful tree was aglow with excitement. But he wasn't made into a treasure chest. The skillful carpenter made the beautiful tree into an ordinary feeding trough.
The second tree was brought to a shipyard. The mighty second tree thought, "Now I will be the most vigorous of vessels." But the strong second tree was made into a simple little fishing boat.
The third tree was brought to a lumberyard. There she was made into beams and put aside. "Why did this happen?" thought the third tree. "All I ever wanted was to touch heaven."
As the weeks passed, their dreams began to fade from memory. However, one magical night brought the first tree's dream to life. A young mother put her newborn into the trough. "This manger is perfect," said the mother to her husband. And the first tree knew he was cradling the most important treasure ever.
One night the fishing boat was used by a tired traveler and his friends. They quickly fell asleep, and the small boat floated out to sea. The sea became rough, and a thunderstorm was brewing. This frightened the second tree. If only he were a mighty vessel and could withstand the force of the storm! The traveler was awakened by the storm, and he stretched out his arms and said, "Peace." The sea became calm and the thunderstorm vanished. It was then that the second tree realized he was carrying the Almighty King.
On a Friday morning, the third tree was taken by soldiers and carried through a hostile mob. She trembled with fear and distaste as a man's hands were nailed to her. But the following Sunday the sun rose. The earth was full of joy. She realized that everything had changed because of God's love.
The first tree was made beautiful.
The second tree was made mighty.
The third tree made people think of God.
Dec. 16
Dec.16
Jesus came to lift our burdens. One of the heaviest burdens we carry is that of hate. In teaching us to forgive, the Lord set us free.
SCRIPTURE: Matthew 18:21-22Matthew 6:14-153 Nephi 12:44
SUGGESTION: Try to forgive someone who has wronged you. If appropriate go to him today and be reconciled.
SONG: " Did You Think To Pray? " Hymns, Page 140
Little White Stocking, The
Jennifer had volunteered for the enormous task of going through her grandmother's things. She purposely left the Christmas boxes for last. As she sat there in the pile of her grandmother's treasured Christmas decorations she noticed the small white stocking. As long as Jennifer could remember the white stocking had hung in the center of her grandmother's mantel. In the midst of all the other Christmas finery it seemed rather plain. Once she had even asked her grandmother about it and why something so plain deserved such a place of prominence among all the other ornaments. Her grandmother's simple reply was only that it was her gift to the Christ Child. And so there it hung year after year. Jennifer almost asked once what gift her grandmother had given to the Christ Child as the stocking looked empty, but she was just a child and the thought was quickly replaced with the wonder and excitement of Christmas. Jennifer folded the tissue paper back over the stocking. This she decided would go into the discard pile. She laid it on top of the box with the few other Christmas decorations that would be thrown out. She took one last look at the stocking and noticed that there appeared to be something inside. Jennifer removed the paper and slowly slipped her hand into the stocking. Gently she pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper. As she opened the paper she immediately recognized her grandmother's flawless handwriting. On the top in bold firm letters was written "MY GIFT TO MY SAVIOR." Jennifer continued to read the paper, which expressed her grandmother's love for her savior, for the wonderful life, sweet caring family, and blessings of the Gospel she had enjoyed for so many years. Jennifer felt her heart quicken as she continued to read:
What gift could I give to the Son of God?
What gift could convey the abundance of love?
What earthly gift that is mine to give,
Would be worthy a life so perfectly lived?
The gift that I hold here deep in my heart.
To give at this Christmas time, a new life to start.
I'll give Him my love, and a promise true,
to become more like Him not just at Christmas.
But the whole year through.
Tears flooded Jennifer's eyes as she thought about the wonderful life her grandmother had lived, about all the good she had done, all the service she so lovingly had given to everyone. She thought how much like the Savior her grandmother always tried to be, and how much the Savior had blessed her own life. Jennifer gently removed the plain little white stocking from the discard pile and packed it in the box with the things she would be taking home. Later that evening, still filled with the warmth generated by the note written by her grandmother, Jennifer gathered her family and announced that they would be starting a new family tradition. From the tissue paper she took out the little white stocking and hung it in the center of the mantle. "This," she explained to her family was the Saviors stocking, white and pure as He is. Inside this stocking we will place our gifts to the Savior for this Christmas, and next year we will open them and read them. Feeling love and a deep gratitude for her grandmother, for her simple faith and desire to truly love her Savior, Jennifer wrote her own Christmas gift for her Savior and gently placed it in the Little White Stocking. By placing your own gifts to the Savior in this Little White Stocking.
Jesus came to lift our burdens. One of the heaviest burdens we carry is that of hate. In teaching us to forgive, the Lord set us free.
SCRIPTURE: Matthew 18:21-22Matthew 6:14-153 Nephi 12:44
SUGGESTION: Try to forgive someone who has wronged you. If appropriate go to him today and be reconciled.
SONG: " Did You Think To Pray? " Hymns, Page 140
Little White Stocking, The
Jennifer had volunteered for the enormous task of going through her grandmother's things. She purposely left the Christmas boxes for last. As she sat there in the pile of her grandmother's treasured Christmas decorations she noticed the small white stocking. As long as Jennifer could remember the white stocking had hung in the center of her grandmother's mantel. In the midst of all the other Christmas finery it seemed rather plain. Once she had even asked her grandmother about it and why something so plain deserved such a place of prominence among all the other ornaments. Her grandmother's simple reply was only that it was her gift to the Christ Child. And so there it hung year after year. Jennifer almost asked once what gift her grandmother had given to the Christ Child as the stocking looked empty, but she was just a child and the thought was quickly replaced with the wonder and excitement of Christmas. Jennifer folded the tissue paper back over the stocking. This she decided would go into the discard pile. She laid it on top of the box with the few other Christmas decorations that would be thrown out. She took one last look at the stocking and noticed that there appeared to be something inside. Jennifer removed the paper and slowly slipped her hand into the stocking. Gently she pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper. As she opened the paper she immediately recognized her grandmother's flawless handwriting. On the top in bold firm letters was written "MY GIFT TO MY SAVIOR." Jennifer continued to read the paper, which expressed her grandmother's love for her savior, for the wonderful life, sweet caring family, and blessings of the Gospel she had enjoyed for so many years. Jennifer felt her heart quicken as she continued to read:
What gift could I give to the Son of God?
What gift could convey the abundance of love?
What earthly gift that is mine to give,
Would be worthy a life so perfectly lived?
The gift that I hold here deep in my heart.
To give at this Christmas time, a new life to start.
I'll give Him my love, and a promise true,
to become more like Him not just at Christmas.
But the whole year through.
Tears flooded Jennifer's eyes as she thought about the wonderful life her grandmother had lived, about all the good she had done, all the service she so lovingly had given to everyone. She thought how much like the Savior her grandmother always tried to be, and how much the Savior had blessed her own life. Jennifer gently removed the plain little white stocking from the discard pile and packed it in the box with the things she would be taking home. Later that evening, still filled with the warmth generated by the note written by her grandmother, Jennifer gathered her family and announced that they would be starting a new family tradition. From the tissue paper she took out the little white stocking and hung it in the center of the mantle. "This," she explained to her family was the Saviors stocking, white and pure as He is. Inside this stocking we will place our gifts to the Savior for this Christmas, and next year we will open them and read them. Feeling love and a deep gratitude for her grandmother, for her simple faith and desire to truly love her Savior, Jennifer wrote her own Christmas gift for her Savior and gently placed it in the Little White Stocking. By placing your own gifts to the Savior in this Little White Stocking.
Dec. 13
Dec.13
We don't like to think of illness or death at Christmas time, but these shadows can fall on any season. Jesus taught us an unforgettable lesson in empathy when he shared the grief of his friends after the death of Lazarus.
SCRIPTURE: John 11:35,36,41,43,44
SUGGESTION: Do something to bring cheer to someone who has a reason to feel sad.
SONG: :Abide With Me!" Hymns, Page 166
Last Straw, The
Let us think about each other and help each other to show love and do good deeds. -- Heb. 10:24
It was another long, winter afternoon with everyone stuck in the house and the four McDonald children were at it again -- bickering, teasing, fighting over their toys. At times like these, Mother was almost ready to believe that her children didn’t love each other, though she knew that wasn’t really true. All brothers and sisters’ fight, of course, but lately her little lively bunch had been particularly horrible to each other, especially Eric and Kelly, who were just a year apart. They seemed determined to spend the whole winter making each other miserable.
Gimme that. It's mine!
Is not, fatso! I had it first!
Mother sighed as she listened to the latest argument coming from the living room. With Christmas only a month away, the McDonald house seemed sadly lacking in Christmas spirit. This was supposed to be the season of sharing and love, of warm feelings and happy hearts. A home needed more than just pretty packages or twinkling lights on the tree to fill it with the Christmas spirit. But how could any mother convince her children that being kind to each other was the most important way top get ready for Christmas.
Mother had only one idea. Years ago her grandmother had told her about an old Christmas custom that helped people discover the real meaning of Christmas. Perhaps it would work for her family. It was worth a try. Mother gathered her four little rascals together and sat them down on the stairs, smallest to tallest -- Mike, Randi, Kelly and Eric.
How would you kids like to start a new Christmas project this year? she asked. It’s like a game, but it can only be played by people who can keep a secret. Can everyone here do that?
�I can! shouted Eric, wildly waving his arm in the air.
�I can keep a secret better than he can, yelled Kelly, jumping up and waving her arm in the air, too. If this was a contest, she wanted to make sure she beat Eric.
�I can do it! chimed in Randi, not quite sure what was happening but not wanting to be left out.
Me too, me too, me too, squealed little Mike, bouncing up and down.
Well then here's how the game works, Mother explained. This year we're going to surprise Baby Jesus when he comes on Christmas eve by making him the softest bed in the world. We're going to build a little crib for him to sleep in right here in our house, and we’ll fill it with straw to make it comfortable. But here’s the catch: Each piece of straw we put in the manger will represent one kind thing we do for someone between now and Christmas. The more kind things we do, the more straw there will be for Baby Jesus. The secret part is -- we can't tell anyone what good things we’re doing and who we’re doing them for.
The children looked confused. How will Baby Jesus know it's his bed? asked Kelly.
He’ll know, said Mother. He’ll recognize it by the love we've put into the crib, by how soft it is.
But who will we do the kind things for? asked Eric.
It’s simple, said Mother. We’ll do them for each other. Once every week between now and Christmas, we’ll put all of our names in this hat, mine and Daddy’s too. Then we’ll each draw a name and do kind things for that person for a whole week. But here’s the hard part. We can’t tell anyone whose name we’ve drawn for that week, and we’ll each try to do as many favors as we can for our special person without getting caught. And for every secret good thing we do, we’ll put another piece of straw in the crib.
But what if I pick someone I don’t like? frowned Kelly.
Mother thought about that for a minute. Maybe you could use extra fat straws for the good things you do for that person, because they might be harder to do. But just think how much faster the fat straws will fill up our crib. Then on Christmas eve we’ll put Baby Jesus in his little bed, and he’ll sleep that night on a mattress made of love. I think he’d like that, don’t you?
now, who will build the crib for us? she asked.
Since Eric was the oldest, and the only one of the children allowed to use tools, he marched off to the basement to give it a try. For the next couple of hours loud banging and sawing noises came from the basement. Then for a long time there were no noises at all. Finally Eric climbed back up the stairs with the manger in his arms. Here it is, he grinned. The best crib in the world! And I did it all myself.
For once, everyone agreed: the little manger was the best crib in the world. One leg was an inch too short, of course, and the crib rocked a bit. But it had been built with love -- and about a hundred bent nails -- and it would certainly last a long time.
Now we need some straw, said Mother, and together they headed out to the car to go searching for some in the nearby fields. Surprisingly, no one fought over who was going to sit in the front seat that day as they drove around the countryside, looking for an empty field. At last they spotted a small vacant patch of land that had been covered with tall grass in summer. Now, in mid-December, the grass had dried down to yellow stalks that looked just like real straw.
Mother stopped the car and the kids scrambled out to pick handfuls of the long grass.
That’s enough! Mother finally laughed, when she saw that the cardboard box in the trunk was almost overflowing. Remember, it’s only a small crib. So home they went, where they spread the straw carefully on a tray Mother had put on the kitchen table. The empty manger was placed gently on top, and the straw hid its one short leg.
When can we pick names! shouted the children.
As soon as Daddy comes home for dinner, Mother answered.
At the supper table that night, the six names were written on separate pieces of paper, folded up and shuffled around in an old baseball hat. Then the drawing began.
Kelly picked first and immediately started to giggle. Randi reached into the hat next. Daddy glanced at his scrap of paper and smiled quietly behind his hand. Mother picked out a name, but her face never gave away a clue. Next, little Mike reached into the hat, but since he couldn’t read yet, Daddy had to whisper in his ear and tell him which name he had picked. Eric was the last to choose, and as he unfolded his piece of paper a frown crossed his face. But he stuffed the name in his pocket and said nothing. The family was ready to begin.
The week that followed was filled with surprises. It seemed the McDonald house had suddenly been invaded by an army of invisible elves, and good things were happening everywhere. Kelly would walk into her room at bedtime and find her little blue nightgown neatly laid out and her bed turned down. Someone cleaned up the sawdust under the workbench without being asked. The jelly blobs disappeared magically from the kitchen counter after lunch one day while Mother was getting the mail. And every morning, while Eric was brushing his teeth, someone crept quietly into his room and made his bed. It wasn’t made perfectly, but it was made.
Where are my shoes? asked Daddy one morning. No one seemed to know, but before he left for work, they were back in the closet, all shined up.
Mother noticed other changes during that week, too. The children weren’t teasing or fighting as much. An argument would start and then suddenly stop for no good reason. Even Eric and Kelly seemed to be getting along better. In fact, all the children wore secret smiles and giggled to themselves at times.
By Sunday, everyone was anxious to pick new names again, and this time there was even more laughter and merriment during the picking process, except for Eric. Once again he unfolded his paper, looked at it, and stuffed it in his pocket without a word. Mother noticed, but said nothing.
The second week of the game brought more amazing events. The garbage was taken out without anyone being asked. Someone even did two of Kelly’s hard math problems one night when she left her homework out on the table.
The little pile of straw grew higher and softer. With only two weeks left until Christmas, the children wondered if their homemade bed would be comfortable enough for Baby Jesus.
Who will be Baby Jesus anyway? Randi asked on the third Sunday night after they had all picked new names.
Perhaps we can use one of the dolls, said Mother. Why don’t you and Mike be in charge of picking out the right one?
The two younger children ran off to gather up their favorite dolls, but everyone else wanted to help pick Baby Jesus, too. Little Mike dragged his Bozo the Clown rag doll from his room and proudly handed it over, sniffling later when everyone laughed. Soon Eric’s well-hugged teddy bear, Bruffles, joined the dolls filling up the couch. Barbie and Ken were there, along with Kermit the Frog, stuffed dogs and lambs, and even a cuddly monkey that Grandma and Grandpa had sent Mike one year. But none of them seemed quite right.
Only an old baby doll, who had been loved almost to pieces, looked like a possibility for their Baby Jesus. Chatty Baby, she had once been called, before she stopped chatting forever after too many baths.
She looks so funny now, said Randi, and it was true. Once while playing beauty shop, Kelly had cut her own blonde hair along with Chatty Baby’s, giving them both a raggedy crew cut. Kelly’s hair had eventually grown back, but Chatty Baby’s never had. Now the wisps of blonde hair that stuck out all over the dolls head made her look a little lost and forgotten. But her eyes were still bright blue and she still had a smile on her face, even though her face was smudged here and there by the touch of many chubby little fingers.
�I think she’s perfect, said Mother. Baby Jesus probably didn’t have much hair when he was born either, and I bet he’d like to be represented by a doll who’s had so many hugs.
So the decision was made and the children began to make a new outfit for their Baby Jesus -- a little leather vest out of some scraps and some cloth diapers. Best of all, Baby Jesus fit perfectly into the little crib, but since it wasn’t quite time for him to sleep there yet, he was laid carefully on a shelf in the hall closet to wait for Christmas eve.
Meanwhile, the pile of straw grew and grew. Every day brought new and different surprises as the secret elves stepped up their activity. The McDonald home was finally filled with Christmas spirit. Only Eric had been unusually quiet since the third week of name picking.
The final night of name picking was also the night before Christmas eve. As the family sat around the table waiting for the last set of names to be put in the hat, Mother said, You’ve all done a wonderful job. There must be hundreds of straws in our crib -- maybe a thousand. You should be so pleased with the bed you've made. But remember, there’s still one whole day left. We all have time to do a little more to make the bed even softer before tomorrow night. Let’s try.
For the last time, the hat was passed around the table. Little Mike pulled out a name, and Daddy whispered it to him, just as he had done every week. Randi unfolded hers carefully under the table, peeked at it and hunched up her shoulders, smiling. Kelly reached into the hat and giggled happily when she saw the name. Mother and Daddy each took their turns, too, and then handed the hat with the last name to Eric. But as he unfolded the small scrap of paper and read it, his face pinched up and he suddenly seemed about to cry. Without a word, he ran from the room.
Everyone immediately jumped up from the table, but Mother stopped them. No, stay where you are, she said. Let me talk to him alone first.
Just as she reached the top of the stairs, Eric’s door banged open. He was trying to pull his coat on with one hand while he carried a small suitcase with the other hand.
�I have to leave, he said quietly, through his tears. If I don’t, I’ll spoil Christmas for everyone!
But why? And where are you going? asked Mother.
�I can sleep in my snow fort for a couple of days. I’ll come home right after Christmas. I promise.
Mother started to say something about freezing and snow and no mittens or boots, but Daddy, who was now standing just behind her, put his hand on her arm and shook his head. The front door closed, and together they watched from the window as the little figure with the sadly slumped shoulders and no hat trudged across the street and sat down on a snow bank near the corner. It was very dark outside, and cold, and a few snow flurries drifted down on the small boy and his suitcase.
But he’ll freeze! said Mother.
Give him a few minutes alone, said Dad quietly. Then you can talk to him.
The huddled figure was already dusted with white when Mother walked across the street 10 minutes later and sat down beside him on the snow bank.
What is it, Eric? You’ve been so good these last few weeks, but I know something’s been bothering you since we first started the crib. Can you tell me, honey?
Awe, Mom, don’t you see? he sniffed. �I tried so hard, but I can’t do it anymore, and now I’m going to wreck Christmas for everyone. With that he burst into sobs and threw himself into his mother’s arms.
But I don’t understand, Mother said, brushing the tears from his face. What can’t you do? And how could you possibly spoil Christmas for us?
Mom, the little boy said through his tears, you just don’t understand. I got Kelly’s name all four weeks! And I hate Kelly! I can’t do one more nice thing for her or I’ll die! I tried, Mom. I really did. I sneaked in her room every night and fixed her bed. I even laid out her crummy nightgown. I emptied her wastebasket, and I did some homework for her one night when she was going to the bathroom. Mom, I even let her use my race car one day, but she smashed it right into the wall like always!
�I tried to be nice to her, Mom. Even when she called me a stupid dummy because the crib leg was short, I didn’t hit her. And every week, when we picked new names, I thought it would be over. But tonight, when I got her name again, I knew I couldn’t do one more nice thing for her, Mom. I just can’t! And tomorrow’s Christmas eve. I’ll spoil Christmas for everybody just when we’re ready to put Baby Jesus in the crib. Don’t you see why I had to leave?
They sat together quietly for a few minutes, Mother’s arm around the small boy’s shoulders. Only an occasional sniffle and hiccup broke the silence on the snow bank.
Finally Mother began to speak softly, Eric, I am so proud of you. Every good thing you did should count as double because it was especially hard for you to be nice to Kelly for so long. But you did all those nice things anyway, one straw at a time. You gave your love when it wasn’t easy to give. Maybe that’s what the spirit of Christmas is really all about. If it’s too easy to give, maybe we’re not really giving much of ourselves after all. The straws you added were probable the most important ones, and you should be proud of yourself.
Now, how would you like a chance to earn a few easy straws like the rest of us? I still have the name I picked tonight in my pocket, and I haven’t looked at it yet. Why don’t we switch, just for the last day? It will be our secret.
That’s not cheating?
It’s not cheating, Mother smiled.
Together they dried the tears, brushed off the snow and walked back to the house.
The next day the whole family was busy cooking and straightening up the house for Christmas Day, wrapping last-minute presents and trying hard not to burst with excitement. But even with all the activity and eagerness, a flurry of new straws piled up in the crib, and by nightfall it was overflowing. At different times while passing by, each member of the family, big and small, would pause and look at the wonderful pile for a moment, then smile before going on. It was almost time for the tiny crib to be used. But was it soft enough? One straw might still make a difference.
For that very reason, just before bedtime, Mother tip-toed quietly to Kelly’s room to lay out the little blue nightgown and turn down the bed. But she stopped in the doorway, surprised. Someone had already been there. The nightgown was laid neatly across the bed and a small red race car rested next to it on the pillow.
The last straw was Eric’s after all.
We don't like to think of illness or death at Christmas time, but these shadows can fall on any season. Jesus taught us an unforgettable lesson in empathy when he shared the grief of his friends after the death of Lazarus.
SCRIPTURE: John 11:35,36,41,43,44
SUGGESTION: Do something to bring cheer to someone who has a reason to feel sad.
SONG: :Abide With Me!" Hymns, Page 166
Last Straw, The
Let us think about each other and help each other to show love and do good deeds. -- Heb. 10:24
It was another long, winter afternoon with everyone stuck in the house and the four McDonald children were at it again -- bickering, teasing, fighting over their toys. At times like these, Mother was almost ready to believe that her children didn’t love each other, though she knew that wasn’t really true. All brothers and sisters’ fight, of course, but lately her little lively bunch had been particularly horrible to each other, especially Eric and Kelly, who were just a year apart. They seemed determined to spend the whole winter making each other miserable.
Gimme that. It's mine!
Is not, fatso! I had it first!
Mother sighed as she listened to the latest argument coming from the living room. With Christmas only a month away, the McDonald house seemed sadly lacking in Christmas spirit. This was supposed to be the season of sharing and love, of warm feelings and happy hearts. A home needed more than just pretty packages or twinkling lights on the tree to fill it with the Christmas spirit. But how could any mother convince her children that being kind to each other was the most important way top get ready for Christmas.
Mother had only one idea. Years ago her grandmother had told her about an old Christmas custom that helped people discover the real meaning of Christmas. Perhaps it would work for her family. It was worth a try. Mother gathered her four little rascals together and sat them down on the stairs, smallest to tallest -- Mike, Randi, Kelly and Eric.
How would you kids like to start a new Christmas project this year? she asked. It’s like a game, but it can only be played by people who can keep a secret. Can everyone here do that?
�I can! shouted Eric, wildly waving his arm in the air.
�I can keep a secret better than he can, yelled Kelly, jumping up and waving her arm in the air, too. If this was a contest, she wanted to make sure she beat Eric.
�I can do it! chimed in Randi, not quite sure what was happening but not wanting to be left out.
Me too, me too, me too, squealed little Mike, bouncing up and down.
Well then here's how the game works, Mother explained. This year we're going to surprise Baby Jesus when he comes on Christmas eve by making him the softest bed in the world. We're going to build a little crib for him to sleep in right here in our house, and we’ll fill it with straw to make it comfortable. But here’s the catch: Each piece of straw we put in the manger will represent one kind thing we do for someone between now and Christmas. The more kind things we do, the more straw there will be for Baby Jesus. The secret part is -- we can't tell anyone what good things we’re doing and who we’re doing them for.
The children looked confused. How will Baby Jesus know it's his bed? asked Kelly.
He’ll know, said Mother. He’ll recognize it by the love we've put into the crib, by how soft it is.
But who will we do the kind things for? asked Eric.
It’s simple, said Mother. We’ll do them for each other. Once every week between now and Christmas, we’ll put all of our names in this hat, mine and Daddy’s too. Then we’ll each draw a name and do kind things for that person for a whole week. But here’s the hard part. We can’t tell anyone whose name we’ve drawn for that week, and we’ll each try to do as many favors as we can for our special person without getting caught. And for every secret good thing we do, we’ll put another piece of straw in the crib.
But what if I pick someone I don’t like? frowned Kelly.
Mother thought about that for a minute. Maybe you could use extra fat straws for the good things you do for that person, because they might be harder to do. But just think how much faster the fat straws will fill up our crib. Then on Christmas eve we’ll put Baby Jesus in his little bed, and he’ll sleep that night on a mattress made of love. I think he’d like that, don’t you?
now, who will build the crib for us? she asked.
Since Eric was the oldest, and the only one of the children allowed to use tools, he marched off to the basement to give it a try. For the next couple of hours loud banging and sawing noises came from the basement. Then for a long time there were no noises at all. Finally Eric climbed back up the stairs with the manger in his arms. Here it is, he grinned. The best crib in the world! And I did it all myself.
For once, everyone agreed: the little manger was the best crib in the world. One leg was an inch too short, of course, and the crib rocked a bit. But it had been built with love -- and about a hundred bent nails -- and it would certainly last a long time.
Now we need some straw, said Mother, and together they headed out to the car to go searching for some in the nearby fields. Surprisingly, no one fought over who was going to sit in the front seat that day as they drove around the countryside, looking for an empty field. At last they spotted a small vacant patch of land that had been covered with tall grass in summer. Now, in mid-December, the grass had dried down to yellow stalks that looked just like real straw.
Mother stopped the car and the kids scrambled out to pick handfuls of the long grass.
That’s enough! Mother finally laughed, when she saw that the cardboard box in the trunk was almost overflowing. Remember, it’s only a small crib. So home they went, where they spread the straw carefully on a tray Mother had put on the kitchen table. The empty manger was placed gently on top, and the straw hid its one short leg.
When can we pick names! shouted the children.
As soon as Daddy comes home for dinner, Mother answered.
At the supper table that night, the six names were written on separate pieces of paper, folded up and shuffled around in an old baseball hat. Then the drawing began.
Kelly picked first and immediately started to giggle. Randi reached into the hat next. Daddy glanced at his scrap of paper and smiled quietly behind his hand. Mother picked out a name, but her face never gave away a clue. Next, little Mike reached into the hat, but since he couldn’t read yet, Daddy had to whisper in his ear and tell him which name he had picked. Eric was the last to choose, and as he unfolded his piece of paper a frown crossed his face. But he stuffed the name in his pocket and said nothing. The family was ready to begin.
The week that followed was filled with surprises. It seemed the McDonald house had suddenly been invaded by an army of invisible elves, and good things were happening everywhere. Kelly would walk into her room at bedtime and find her little blue nightgown neatly laid out and her bed turned down. Someone cleaned up the sawdust under the workbench without being asked. The jelly blobs disappeared magically from the kitchen counter after lunch one day while Mother was getting the mail. And every morning, while Eric was brushing his teeth, someone crept quietly into his room and made his bed. It wasn’t made perfectly, but it was made.
Where are my shoes? asked Daddy one morning. No one seemed to know, but before he left for work, they were back in the closet, all shined up.
Mother noticed other changes during that week, too. The children weren’t teasing or fighting as much. An argument would start and then suddenly stop for no good reason. Even Eric and Kelly seemed to be getting along better. In fact, all the children wore secret smiles and giggled to themselves at times.
By Sunday, everyone was anxious to pick new names again, and this time there was even more laughter and merriment during the picking process, except for Eric. Once again he unfolded his paper, looked at it, and stuffed it in his pocket without a word. Mother noticed, but said nothing.
The second week of the game brought more amazing events. The garbage was taken out without anyone being asked. Someone even did two of Kelly’s hard math problems one night when she left her homework out on the table.
The little pile of straw grew higher and softer. With only two weeks left until Christmas, the children wondered if their homemade bed would be comfortable enough for Baby Jesus.
Who will be Baby Jesus anyway? Randi asked on the third Sunday night after they had all picked new names.
Perhaps we can use one of the dolls, said Mother. Why don’t you and Mike be in charge of picking out the right one?
The two younger children ran off to gather up their favorite dolls, but everyone else wanted to help pick Baby Jesus, too. Little Mike dragged his Bozo the Clown rag doll from his room and proudly handed it over, sniffling later when everyone laughed. Soon Eric’s well-hugged teddy bear, Bruffles, joined the dolls filling up the couch. Barbie and Ken were there, along with Kermit the Frog, stuffed dogs and lambs, and even a cuddly monkey that Grandma and Grandpa had sent Mike one year. But none of them seemed quite right.
Only an old baby doll, who had been loved almost to pieces, looked like a possibility for their Baby Jesus. Chatty Baby, she had once been called, before she stopped chatting forever after too many baths.
She looks so funny now, said Randi, and it was true. Once while playing beauty shop, Kelly had cut her own blonde hair along with Chatty Baby’s, giving them both a raggedy crew cut. Kelly’s hair had eventually grown back, but Chatty Baby’s never had. Now the wisps of blonde hair that stuck out all over the dolls head made her look a little lost and forgotten. But her eyes were still bright blue and she still had a smile on her face, even though her face was smudged here and there by the touch of many chubby little fingers.
�I think she’s perfect, said Mother. Baby Jesus probably didn’t have much hair when he was born either, and I bet he’d like to be represented by a doll who’s had so many hugs.
So the decision was made and the children began to make a new outfit for their Baby Jesus -- a little leather vest out of some scraps and some cloth diapers. Best of all, Baby Jesus fit perfectly into the little crib, but since it wasn’t quite time for him to sleep there yet, he was laid carefully on a shelf in the hall closet to wait for Christmas eve.
Meanwhile, the pile of straw grew and grew. Every day brought new and different surprises as the secret elves stepped up their activity. The McDonald home was finally filled with Christmas spirit. Only Eric had been unusually quiet since the third week of name picking.
The final night of name picking was also the night before Christmas eve. As the family sat around the table waiting for the last set of names to be put in the hat, Mother said, You’ve all done a wonderful job. There must be hundreds of straws in our crib -- maybe a thousand. You should be so pleased with the bed you've made. But remember, there’s still one whole day left. We all have time to do a little more to make the bed even softer before tomorrow night. Let’s try.
For the last time, the hat was passed around the table. Little Mike pulled out a name, and Daddy whispered it to him, just as he had done every week. Randi unfolded hers carefully under the table, peeked at it and hunched up her shoulders, smiling. Kelly reached into the hat and giggled happily when she saw the name. Mother and Daddy each took their turns, too, and then handed the hat with the last name to Eric. But as he unfolded the small scrap of paper and read it, his face pinched up and he suddenly seemed about to cry. Without a word, he ran from the room.
Everyone immediately jumped up from the table, but Mother stopped them. No, stay where you are, she said. Let me talk to him alone first.
Just as she reached the top of the stairs, Eric’s door banged open. He was trying to pull his coat on with one hand while he carried a small suitcase with the other hand.
�I have to leave, he said quietly, through his tears. If I don’t, I’ll spoil Christmas for everyone!
But why? And where are you going? asked Mother.
�I can sleep in my snow fort for a couple of days. I’ll come home right after Christmas. I promise.
Mother started to say something about freezing and snow and no mittens or boots, but Daddy, who was now standing just behind her, put his hand on her arm and shook his head. The front door closed, and together they watched from the window as the little figure with the sadly slumped shoulders and no hat trudged across the street and sat down on a snow bank near the corner. It was very dark outside, and cold, and a few snow flurries drifted down on the small boy and his suitcase.
But he’ll freeze! said Mother.
Give him a few minutes alone, said Dad quietly. Then you can talk to him.
The huddled figure was already dusted with white when Mother walked across the street 10 minutes later and sat down beside him on the snow bank.
What is it, Eric? You’ve been so good these last few weeks, but I know something’s been bothering you since we first started the crib. Can you tell me, honey?
Awe, Mom, don’t you see? he sniffed. �I tried so hard, but I can’t do it anymore, and now I’m going to wreck Christmas for everyone. With that he burst into sobs and threw himself into his mother’s arms.
But I don’t understand, Mother said, brushing the tears from his face. What can’t you do? And how could you possibly spoil Christmas for us?
Mom, the little boy said through his tears, you just don’t understand. I got Kelly’s name all four weeks! And I hate Kelly! I can’t do one more nice thing for her or I’ll die! I tried, Mom. I really did. I sneaked in her room every night and fixed her bed. I even laid out her crummy nightgown. I emptied her wastebasket, and I did some homework for her one night when she was going to the bathroom. Mom, I even let her use my race car one day, but she smashed it right into the wall like always!
�I tried to be nice to her, Mom. Even when she called me a stupid dummy because the crib leg was short, I didn’t hit her. And every week, when we picked new names, I thought it would be over. But tonight, when I got her name again, I knew I couldn’t do one more nice thing for her, Mom. I just can’t! And tomorrow’s Christmas eve. I’ll spoil Christmas for everybody just when we’re ready to put Baby Jesus in the crib. Don’t you see why I had to leave?
They sat together quietly for a few minutes, Mother’s arm around the small boy’s shoulders. Only an occasional sniffle and hiccup broke the silence on the snow bank.
Finally Mother began to speak softly, Eric, I am so proud of you. Every good thing you did should count as double because it was especially hard for you to be nice to Kelly for so long. But you did all those nice things anyway, one straw at a time. You gave your love when it wasn’t easy to give. Maybe that’s what the spirit of Christmas is really all about. If it’s too easy to give, maybe we’re not really giving much of ourselves after all. The straws you added were probable the most important ones, and you should be proud of yourself.
Now, how would you like a chance to earn a few easy straws like the rest of us? I still have the name I picked tonight in my pocket, and I haven’t looked at it yet. Why don’t we switch, just for the last day? It will be our secret.
That’s not cheating?
It’s not cheating, Mother smiled.
Together they dried the tears, brushed off the snow and walked back to the house.
The next day the whole family was busy cooking and straightening up the house for Christmas Day, wrapping last-minute presents and trying hard not to burst with excitement. But even with all the activity and eagerness, a flurry of new straws piled up in the crib, and by nightfall it was overflowing. At different times while passing by, each member of the family, big and small, would pause and look at the wonderful pile for a moment, then smile before going on. It was almost time for the tiny crib to be used. But was it soft enough? One straw might still make a difference.
For that very reason, just before bedtime, Mother tip-toed quietly to Kelly’s room to lay out the little blue nightgown and turn down the bed. But she stopped in the doorway, surprised. Someone had already been there. The nightgown was laid neatly across the bed and a small red race car rested next to it on the pillow.
The last straw was Eric’s after all.
Dec. 10
Dec.10
We take our free agency for granted, but it was seriously challenged before our mortal lives began. This Christmas let's give thanks for the one who defended our freedom.
SCRIPTURE: Moses 4:1-3
SUGGESTION: Use your free agency to let some goals for yourself, Seal a copy in an envelope to be opened in a year.
SONG: " How Great The Wisdom and the Love", Hymns, page 195
Finding the Spirit of Christmas
Finding the Spirit of Christmas: A Gift of Dreams
Christmas Eve, 1944. I was a sailor in the U.S. Navy, on a one-day leave in San Francisco. I had won $300 at poker that ordinarily would have burned a hole in my pocket, but I couldn't shake an over-whelming sadness.
Scuttlebutt had it we'd be pulling out before the New Year for the South Pacific. I'd just received word that another friend had been killed in Europe. And here I was, an 18-year-old alone in a strange city. Nothing seemed to make any kind of sense. What was I going to be fighting for, anyway?
I spent most of the day in a mental fog, wandering aimlessly through crowds of laughing, happy people. Then, late in the afternoon, my vision suddenly focused, and for the first time a scene registered.
There in a department-store window were two electric trains chugging through a miniature, snow-covered town. In front of the window a skinny boy around nine years old, his nose pressed against the glass. He just stood there, fixed on those trains.
Suddenly the boy was me nine short years before, and the store was Macy's in New York City, my hometown. I could see, could feel the same longing, the same desperate hoping. I could hear the sigh of resignation - the frail attempt to hide the disappointment that Dad could not afford those trains. And I saw the reluctant turning away and then the one last look.
Not this time! I don't know what came over me, but I grabbed the boy by the arm, scaring him half to death.
"My name is George," I told him.
"Jeffery Hollis Jr.," he managed to reply.
"Well, Jeff Hollis Jr.," I said in my best grown-up voice, "we are going to get us those trains."
His eyes grew wide, and he let me lead him into the store. I knew it was crazy, but I didn't care. Suddenly I wanted to be nine again and have a kid's dream come true. The salesclerk looked at us suspiciously, a scruffy black boy and a black sailor in ill-fitting dress blues.
"Those trains in the window," I blurted before he could speak. "The whole setup. How much is it?"
His snorting response was interrupted by the arrival of a much older man wearing a warm Christmas smile. "One hundred and sixty-five dollars and sixty-three cents," the elder man replied, "delivery included."
"We'll take it," I said. "Right now, if we can."
"Sailor," he said, "we can! What about the rest of the family?"
I leaned down, and Jeff Jr. whispered that he had two little sisters as well as his mom and pop. I gave him $50.
"I'll have someone help him out," the elder man told me. And he called over a cheerful woman who took Jeff Jr. by the hand.
While the trains and other purchases were being wrapped, the man told me he had two sons of his own in the service. After a lot of "Merry Christmases," a delivery truck was assigned to take us to the boy's home.
Jeff Hollis Sr.'s reaction reminded me of what my own father's would have been if I had shown up with a stranger and a whole lot of gifts. I could see he was a hard-working man, breaking his back to make ends meet and knowing he couldn't give his family all he wanted.
"I'm just a sailor a long way from home, Mr. Hollis," I said respectfully, explaining how I had seen myself in his son's longing gaze at the store display.
"You couldn't have spent the money any other way?" he asked gruffly.
"No sir," I replied.
His face softened, and he welcomed me to share their table. After supper, I read to Jeff Jr. and his sisters until they went off to bed.
"I guess you know we've got a lot to do before morning," Jeff Sr. said. His words startled me for a moment. Then I understood. I was no longer a child; I was a man now, with adult responsibilities. So I joined him at what turned out to be nearly an all-night job of getting the trains put together and set up. His wife, Marge, made sandwiches and coffee and kept me talking about growing up in New York. At midnight we paused to wish each other a Merry Christmas, then went back to the task of making a boy's dream come true.
When we finished, I was bone-tired. Jeff Hollis Sr. looked for a long time at what we had done, then sighed and sat back in a worn easy chair.
"Mine was a bike," he said quietly. "A big two-wheeler with shiny spokes and bright-yellow handlebars. The seat was real leather. I loved that bike. I dreamed about it and wished for it."
"Mine was a Christmas dress I'd seen in a dressmaker's window," Marge said. "I wanted everyone to say, "What a pretty little girl in that fine dress.'"
Dreams, I thought sleepily. Kid dreams. I guess I dozed because the next thing I knew it was five o'clock, and Jeff Jr. was shaking me. He had remembered I had to be back by eight.
"Is it time yet?" one of the little girls inquired.
"It's time," Jeff Sr. said. "Merry Christmas."
"Wow!" Joy mixed with disbelief. We hadn't done as spectacular a job as the window dressers, but we got the trains laid out all right.
"Dad?" Jeff Jr. asked. "George?"
I exchanged glances with his father and nodded my agreement. This was the honored, official first outing. With Jeff Sr. at one control and me at the other, we set the trains on their way. On the second circuit I eased Jeff Jr. into my place. For about five minutes he ran his train. Then abruptly, he stopped and, without a word, left the room. He returned with the presents he had bought, a look of pride on his face. He'd had some help, but he'd made the choices himself.
I thought he was finished when he turned to me with a package in his hand. "Merry Christmas, George" he said quietly.
I was totally surprised. The gift was a comb-and-brush set, along with a case for other toilet articles. He held out his hand, then changed his mind and hugged me warmly. The moment of parting was bittersweet, for I knew I would probably never see the Hollises again. Jeff Sr. and Marge thanked me, but I was the grateful one.
As I made my way to the station to catch the bus back to the base, I realized I had no more nagging doubts. I had found more in this experience than I had received from all the pep talks and patriotic speeches I had ever heard.
For me, it was a revelation. I knew now what this war and the fighting was about. It was something at once wonderful and simple. This country, my country, was a place of dreams.... and of dreamers who had the faith and the will to make dreams come true.
We take our free agency for granted, but it was seriously challenged before our mortal lives began. This Christmas let's give thanks for the one who defended our freedom.
SCRIPTURE: Moses 4:1-3
SUGGESTION: Use your free agency to let some goals for yourself, Seal a copy in an envelope to be opened in a year.
SONG: " How Great The Wisdom and the Love", Hymns, page 195
Finding the Spirit of Christmas
Finding the Spirit of Christmas: A Gift of Dreams
Christmas Eve, 1944. I was a sailor in the U.S. Navy, on a one-day leave in San Francisco. I had won $300 at poker that ordinarily would have burned a hole in my pocket, but I couldn't shake an over-whelming sadness.
Scuttlebutt had it we'd be pulling out before the New Year for the South Pacific. I'd just received word that another friend had been killed in Europe. And here I was, an 18-year-old alone in a strange city. Nothing seemed to make any kind of sense. What was I going to be fighting for, anyway?
I spent most of the day in a mental fog, wandering aimlessly through crowds of laughing, happy people. Then, late in the afternoon, my vision suddenly focused, and for the first time a scene registered.
There in a department-store window were two electric trains chugging through a miniature, snow-covered town. In front of the window a skinny boy around nine years old, his nose pressed against the glass. He just stood there, fixed on those trains.
Suddenly the boy was me nine short years before, and the store was Macy's in New York City, my hometown. I could see, could feel the same longing, the same desperate hoping. I could hear the sigh of resignation - the frail attempt to hide the disappointment that Dad could not afford those trains. And I saw the reluctant turning away and then the one last look.
Not this time! I don't know what came over me, but I grabbed the boy by the arm, scaring him half to death.
"My name is George," I told him.
"Jeffery Hollis Jr.," he managed to reply.
"Well, Jeff Hollis Jr.," I said in my best grown-up voice, "we are going to get us those trains."
His eyes grew wide, and he let me lead him into the store. I knew it was crazy, but I didn't care. Suddenly I wanted to be nine again and have a kid's dream come true. The salesclerk looked at us suspiciously, a scruffy black boy and a black sailor in ill-fitting dress blues.
"Those trains in the window," I blurted before he could speak. "The whole setup. How much is it?"
His snorting response was interrupted by the arrival of a much older man wearing a warm Christmas smile. "One hundred and sixty-five dollars and sixty-three cents," the elder man replied, "delivery included."
"We'll take it," I said. "Right now, if we can."
"Sailor," he said, "we can! What about the rest of the family?"
I leaned down, and Jeff Jr. whispered that he had two little sisters as well as his mom and pop. I gave him $50.
"I'll have someone help him out," the elder man told me. And he called over a cheerful woman who took Jeff Jr. by the hand.
While the trains and other purchases were being wrapped, the man told me he had two sons of his own in the service. After a lot of "Merry Christmases," a delivery truck was assigned to take us to the boy's home.
Jeff Hollis Sr.'s reaction reminded me of what my own father's would have been if I had shown up with a stranger and a whole lot of gifts. I could see he was a hard-working man, breaking his back to make ends meet and knowing he couldn't give his family all he wanted.
"I'm just a sailor a long way from home, Mr. Hollis," I said respectfully, explaining how I had seen myself in his son's longing gaze at the store display.
"You couldn't have spent the money any other way?" he asked gruffly.
"No sir," I replied.
His face softened, and he welcomed me to share their table. After supper, I read to Jeff Jr. and his sisters until they went off to bed.
"I guess you know we've got a lot to do before morning," Jeff Sr. said. His words startled me for a moment. Then I understood. I was no longer a child; I was a man now, with adult responsibilities. So I joined him at what turned out to be nearly an all-night job of getting the trains put together and set up. His wife, Marge, made sandwiches and coffee and kept me talking about growing up in New York. At midnight we paused to wish each other a Merry Christmas, then went back to the task of making a boy's dream come true.
When we finished, I was bone-tired. Jeff Hollis Sr. looked for a long time at what we had done, then sighed and sat back in a worn easy chair.
"Mine was a bike," he said quietly. "A big two-wheeler with shiny spokes and bright-yellow handlebars. The seat was real leather. I loved that bike. I dreamed about it and wished for it."
"Mine was a Christmas dress I'd seen in a dressmaker's window," Marge said. "I wanted everyone to say, "What a pretty little girl in that fine dress.'"
Dreams, I thought sleepily. Kid dreams. I guess I dozed because the next thing I knew it was five o'clock, and Jeff Jr. was shaking me. He had remembered I had to be back by eight.
"Is it time yet?" one of the little girls inquired.
"It's time," Jeff Sr. said. "Merry Christmas."
"Wow!" Joy mixed with disbelief. We hadn't done as spectacular a job as the window dressers, but we got the trains laid out all right.
"Dad?" Jeff Jr. asked. "George?"
I exchanged glances with his father and nodded my agreement. This was the honored, official first outing. With Jeff Sr. at one control and me at the other, we set the trains on their way. On the second circuit I eased Jeff Jr. into my place. For about five minutes he ran his train. Then abruptly, he stopped and, without a word, left the room. He returned with the presents he had bought, a look of pride on his face. He'd had some help, but he'd made the choices himself.
I thought he was finished when he turned to me with a package in his hand. "Merry Christmas, George" he said quietly.
I was totally surprised. The gift was a comb-and-brush set, along with a case for other toilet articles. He held out his hand, then changed his mind and hugged me warmly. The moment of parting was bittersweet, for I knew I would probably never see the Hollises again. Jeff Sr. and Marge thanked me, but I was the grateful one.
As I made my way to the station to catch the bus back to the base, I realized I had no more nagging doubts. I had found more in this experience than I had received from all the pep talks and patriotic speeches I had ever heard.
For me, it was a revelation. I knew now what this war and the fighting was about. It was something at once wonderful and simple. This country, my country, was a place of dreams.... and of dreamers who had the faith and the will to make dreams come true.
Dec. 11
Dec.11
We could labor every day of our lives and still not repay the kindness of our Lord. But he has shown for us that there is a way to serve him.
SCRIPTURE: Matthew 25:37-40
SUGGESTION: Visit someone who is sick or lonely.
SONG: " A Poor Wayfaring Man Of Grief", Hymns, Page 29
Gift of the Magi, The
From: CHRISTMAS BY THE HEARTH Story by: O. Henry Edited by Rick Blanchette Copyright (c) 1996 Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at eight dollars per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining there unto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."
The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid thirty dollars per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to twenty dollars, the letters of "Dillingham" looked blurred, as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only a dollar and eighty-seven cents with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only a dollar and eighty-seven cents to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling-something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an eight-dollar flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the air shaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: "Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."
Down rippled the brown cascade.
"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.
"Give it to me quick," said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation -- as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value -- the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the eighty-seven cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends -- a mammoth task.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do -- oh! What could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?"
At seven o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.
Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please, God, make him think I am still pretty."
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two -- and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
Jim stepped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.
Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again -- you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say 'Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice -- what a beautiful gift I've got for you."
"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"
Jim looked about the room curiously.
"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you -- sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with a sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"
Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year -- what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.
Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut of a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."
White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! A quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs -- the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshiped for long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jeweled rims -- just the shade to wear in the beautiful varnished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."
The magi, as you know, were wise men -- wonderfully wise men who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who gave gifts, these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are the wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.
We could labor every day of our lives and still not repay the kindness of our Lord. But he has shown for us that there is a way to serve him.
SCRIPTURE: Matthew 25:37-40
SUGGESTION: Visit someone who is sick or lonely.
SONG: " A Poor Wayfaring Man Of Grief", Hymns, Page 29
Gift of the Magi, The
From: CHRISTMAS BY THE HEARTH Story by: O. Henry Edited by Rick Blanchette Copyright (c) 1996 Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at eight dollars per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining there unto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."
The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid thirty dollars per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to twenty dollars, the letters of "Dillingham" looked blurred, as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only a dollar and eighty-seven cents with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only a dollar and eighty-seven cents to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling-something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an eight-dollar flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the air shaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: "Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."
Down rippled the brown cascade.
"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.
"Give it to me quick," said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation -- as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value -- the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the eighty-seven cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends -- a mammoth task.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do -- oh! What could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?"
At seven o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.
Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please, God, make him think I am still pretty."
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two -- and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
Jim stepped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.
Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again -- you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say 'Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice -- what a beautiful gift I've got for you."
"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"
Jim looked about the room curiously.
"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you -- sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with a sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"
Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year -- what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.
Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut of a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."
White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! A quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs -- the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshiped for long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jeweled rims -- just the shade to wear in the beautiful varnished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."
The magi, as you know, were wise men -- wonderfully wise men who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who gave gifts, these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are the wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.
Dec. 12
Dec.12
The Master taught that it isn't what you have that counts; it's what you give. Giving of yourself can fill your world with joy, not only at Christmas, but all year long.
SCRIPTURE: 3 Nephi 13:19-20
SUGGESTION: You'll treasure the time you spend helping others. Do volunteer work for some worthy cause.
SONG: " I Heard The Bells on Christmas Day", Hymns, Page 214
If He Had Not Come
by Norman Vincent Peale
There are many Christmas stories whose warmth and wonder touch our hearts. This is one I used to tell my children when they were small because, simple though it is, it reminds us all of something we sometimes tend to forget: the importance of keeping Christ in Christmas...
It was Christmas Eve the one night in the year when 7 year old Bobby was in a hurry to go to bed. His stocking was tacked to the mantel; the beautiful tree stood in the corner. He kissed his mother and father good night. Then he races upstairs and leaped into bed.
It seemed to Bobby that he hadn’t been asleep any time when a harsh voice shouted "Get up!" He opened his eyes, blinking in the bright sunlight. Then he remembered what day it was. With a joyful shout he hurried into his clothes and bounded down the stairs.
On the bottom step he stopped. No stocking hung from the mantel. The Christmas tree was gone too. "But . . .but I put the angel on myself," Bobby began, when the shrill whistle from the factory made him jump.
"The factory cant be open on Christmas!" Bobby thought, as he put on his coat and ran out of the house. The gateman at the factory was his friend. He would tell Bobby why
"Clear out of here, you!" The gateman jerked his thumb at him. "No kids allowed!"
As Bobby slowly turned to go, he saw to his amazement that up and down the street all the stores were open. "Why are they open on Christmas?" he asked a woman coming out of the supermarket.
"Christmas?" The woman asked. "What’s that?"
The hardware store, the bakery, the five-and-ten everywhere it was the same. People were busy. They were cross. They’d never heard of Christmas.
"I know one place where they’ve heard of Christmas!" Bobby cried.
"At my church! There’s a special service this morning!"
He started to run. Here was the street! At least he thought it was. But here was only a weed-grown vacant lot. The tower with the carillon bells, the Sunday School windows where Bobby had pasted snowflakes there was nothing here.
Just then, from the tall grass near the side of the road, Bobby heard a moan. A man was lying on the ground.
"A car struck me!" he gasped. "Never even stopped!"
"Help!" called Bobby to a lady walking past. "This mans hurt!"
The lady jerked Bobby away. "Don’t touch him! He doesn’t live here. We don’t know anything about him."
"I’ll run to the hospital, mister," Bobby promised. "They will send an ambulance." And he tore off down the street.
"Hospital of the Good Samaritan," Bobby had often read the name over the archway in the great stone wall. But now the stone wall ran around an empty field. Where the name of the hospital had been, was carved instead, If He Had Only Come.
Suddenly Bobby was running home as if his life depended on it. Last night his father had read from the Bible! Maybe the Bible would tell him why everything was changed.
The Bible was still lying on the table in the living room. Bobby snatched it up, ran upstairs to his room. But where the new Testament should have started, there were only blank pages. There was no Christmas story no Jesus at all. Bobby flung himself on his bed and began to cry. . .
"Merry Christmas, Bobby!" It was his mother's voice from downstairs. "Aren’t you getting up on Christmas morning?"
Bobby sprang out of bed and ran to the window. There was a Christmas wreath on the house across the street. And suddenly the carillon bells from the church tower began to ring: Joy to the World! The Lord is Come!
"Here I come, Mother!" Bobby called. But he paused at the door and shut his eyes.
"You came!" he whispered. "Thank you for coming!"
The Master taught that it isn't what you have that counts; it's what you give. Giving of yourself can fill your world with joy, not only at Christmas, but all year long.
SCRIPTURE: 3 Nephi 13:19-20
SUGGESTION: You'll treasure the time you spend helping others. Do volunteer work for some worthy cause.
SONG: " I Heard The Bells on Christmas Day", Hymns, Page 214
If He Had Not Come
by Norman Vincent Peale
There are many Christmas stories whose warmth and wonder touch our hearts. This is one I used to tell my children when they were small because, simple though it is, it reminds us all of something we sometimes tend to forget: the importance of keeping Christ in Christmas...
It was Christmas Eve the one night in the year when 7 year old Bobby was in a hurry to go to bed. His stocking was tacked to the mantel; the beautiful tree stood in the corner. He kissed his mother and father good night. Then he races upstairs and leaped into bed.
It seemed to Bobby that he hadn’t been asleep any time when a harsh voice shouted "Get up!" He opened his eyes, blinking in the bright sunlight. Then he remembered what day it was. With a joyful shout he hurried into his clothes and bounded down the stairs.
On the bottom step he stopped. No stocking hung from the mantel. The Christmas tree was gone too. "But . . .but I put the angel on myself," Bobby began, when the shrill whistle from the factory made him jump.
"The factory cant be open on Christmas!" Bobby thought, as he put on his coat and ran out of the house. The gateman at the factory was his friend. He would tell Bobby why
"Clear out of here, you!" The gateman jerked his thumb at him. "No kids allowed!"
As Bobby slowly turned to go, he saw to his amazement that up and down the street all the stores were open. "Why are they open on Christmas?" he asked a woman coming out of the supermarket.
"Christmas?" The woman asked. "What’s that?"
The hardware store, the bakery, the five-and-ten everywhere it was the same. People were busy. They were cross. They’d never heard of Christmas.
"I know one place where they’ve heard of Christmas!" Bobby cried.
"At my church! There’s a special service this morning!"
He started to run. Here was the street! At least he thought it was. But here was only a weed-grown vacant lot. The tower with the carillon bells, the Sunday School windows where Bobby had pasted snowflakes there was nothing here.
Just then, from the tall grass near the side of the road, Bobby heard a moan. A man was lying on the ground.
"A car struck me!" he gasped. "Never even stopped!"
"Help!" called Bobby to a lady walking past. "This mans hurt!"
The lady jerked Bobby away. "Don’t touch him! He doesn’t live here. We don’t know anything about him."
"I’ll run to the hospital, mister," Bobby promised. "They will send an ambulance." And he tore off down the street.
"Hospital of the Good Samaritan," Bobby had often read the name over the archway in the great stone wall. But now the stone wall ran around an empty field. Where the name of the hospital had been, was carved instead, If He Had Only Come.
Suddenly Bobby was running home as if his life depended on it. Last night his father had read from the Bible! Maybe the Bible would tell him why everything was changed.
The Bible was still lying on the table in the living room. Bobby snatched it up, ran upstairs to his room. But where the new Testament should have started, there were only blank pages. There was no Christmas story no Jesus at all. Bobby flung himself on his bed and began to cry. . .
"Merry Christmas, Bobby!" It was his mother's voice from downstairs. "Aren’t you getting up on Christmas morning?"
Bobby sprang out of bed and ran to the window. There was a Christmas wreath on the house across the street. And suddenly the carillon bells from the church tower began to ring: Joy to the World! The Lord is Come!
"Here I come, Mother!" Bobby called. But he paused at the door and shut his eyes.
"You came!" he whispered. "Thank you for coming!"
Dec. 8
Dec.8
The greatest blessings aren't those of getting but those of becoming. Jesus taught:
SCRIPTURE: 3 Nephi 12:3-9
SUGGESTION: Foster peace on earth by not quarreling with others.
SONG: " More Holiness Give Me", Hymns, Page 131
Doll and the White Rose
I hurried into the local department store to grab some last minute Christmas gifts. I looked at all the people and grumbled to myself. I would be in here forever and I just had so much to do. Christmas was beginning to become such a drag. I kinda wished that I could just sleep through Christmas. But I hurried the best I could through all the people to the toy department. Once again I kind of mumbled to myself at the prices of all these toys. And I wondered if the grand kids would even play with them. I found myself in the doll aisle.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a little boy, about 5, holding a lovely doll. He kept touching her hair and he held her so gently. I could not seem to help myself. I just kept looking over at the little boy and wondered who the doll was for. I watched him turn to a woman, and he called his aunt by name and said, "Are you sure I don't have enough money?" She replied a bit impatiently, "You know that you don't have enough money for it." The aunt told the little boy not to go anywhere, that she had to go get some other things and would be back in a few minutes. And then she left the aisle.
The boy continued to hold the doll. After a bit I asked the boy who the doll was for. He said, "It is the doll my sister wanted so badly for Christmas. She just knew that Santa would bring it." I told him that maybe Santa was going to bring it. He said, "No, Santa can't go where my sister is...I have to give the doll to my Mamma to take to her. "I asked him where his sister was. He looked at me with the saddest eyes and said, "She has gone to be with Jesus. My Daddy says that Mama is going to have to go be with her. "My heart nearly stopped beating. Then the boy looked at me again and said, "I told my Daddy to tell Mama not to go yet. I told him to tell her to wait till I got back from the store".
Then he asked me if I wanted to see his picture. I told him I would love to. He pulled out some pictures he had taken at the front of the store. He said "I want my Mamma to take this with her so she don't ever forget me." "I love my Mama so very much and I wish she did not have to leave me. But Daddy says she will need to be with my sister."
I saw that the little boy had lowered his head and had grown so very quiet. While he was not looking, I reached into my purse and pulled out a handful of bills. I asked the little boy, "Shall we count that money one more time?" He grew excited and said, "Yes, I just know it has to be enough". So I slipped my money in with his, and we began to count it. Of course it was plenty for the doll. He softly said, "Thank you, Jesus, for giving me enough money."
Then the boy said "I just asked Jesus to give me enough money to buy this doll, so Mama can take it with her, to give to my sister. And He heard my prayer." "I wanted to ask Him for enough to buy my Mama a white rose, but I didn't ask Him, but He gave me enough to buy the doll and a rose for my Mama. She loves white roses so very, very much".
In a few minutes the aunt came back, and I wheeled my cart away. I could not keep from thinking about the little boy as I finished my shopping in a totally different spirit than when I had started. And I kept remembering a story I had seen in the newspaper several days earlier, about a drunk driver hitting a car and killing a little girl and leaving the Mother in serious condition. The family was deciding on whether to remove the life support. Now surely this little boy did not belong with that story. Two days later, I read in the paper where the family had disconnected the life support and the young woman had died. I could not forget the little boy, and just kept wondering if the two were somehow connected.
Later that day, I could not help myself and I went out and bought some white roses and took them to the funeral home, where the young woman was. And there she was, holding a lovely white rose, the beautiful doll, and the picture of the little boy in the store. I left there in tears, my life changed forever. The love that little boy had for his little sister and his mother was overwhelming. And in a split second a drunk driver had ripped the life of that little boy to pieces.
The greatest blessings aren't those of getting but those of becoming. Jesus taught:
SCRIPTURE: 3 Nephi 12:3-9
SUGGESTION: Foster peace on earth by not quarreling with others.
SONG: " More Holiness Give Me", Hymns, Page 131
Doll and the White Rose
I hurried into the local department store to grab some last minute Christmas gifts. I looked at all the people and grumbled to myself. I would be in here forever and I just had so much to do. Christmas was beginning to become such a drag. I kinda wished that I could just sleep through Christmas. But I hurried the best I could through all the people to the toy department. Once again I kind of mumbled to myself at the prices of all these toys. And I wondered if the grand kids would even play with them. I found myself in the doll aisle.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a little boy, about 5, holding a lovely doll. He kept touching her hair and he held her so gently. I could not seem to help myself. I just kept looking over at the little boy and wondered who the doll was for. I watched him turn to a woman, and he called his aunt by name and said, "Are you sure I don't have enough money?" She replied a bit impatiently, "You know that you don't have enough money for it." The aunt told the little boy not to go anywhere, that she had to go get some other things and would be back in a few minutes. And then she left the aisle.
The boy continued to hold the doll. After a bit I asked the boy who the doll was for. He said, "It is the doll my sister wanted so badly for Christmas. She just knew that Santa would bring it." I told him that maybe Santa was going to bring it. He said, "No, Santa can't go where my sister is...I have to give the doll to my Mamma to take to her. "I asked him where his sister was. He looked at me with the saddest eyes and said, "She has gone to be with Jesus. My Daddy says that Mama is going to have to go be with her. "My heart nearly stopped beating. Then the boy looked at me again and said, "I told my Daddy to tell Mama not to go yet. I told him to tell her to wait till I got back from the store".
Then he asked me if I wanted to see his picture. I told him I would love to. He pulled out some pictures he had taken at the front of the store. He said "I want my Mamma to take this with her so she don't ever forget me." "I love my Mama so very much and I wish she did not have to leave me. But Daddy says she will need to be with my sister."
I saw that the little boy had lowered his head and had grown so very quiet. While he was not looking, I reached into my purse and pulled out a handful of bills. I asked the little boy, "Shall we count that money one more time?" He grew excited and said, "Yes, I just know it has to be enough". So I slipped my money in with his, and we began to count it. Of course it was plenty for the doll. He softly said, "Thank you, Jesus, for giving me enough money."
Then the boy said "I just asked Jesus to give me enough money to buy this doll, so Mama can take it with her, to give to my sister. And He heard my prayer." "I wanted to ask Him for enough to buy my Mama a white rose, but I didn't ask Him, but He gave me enough to buy the doll and a rose for my Mama. She loves white roses so very, very much".
In a few minutes the aunt came back, and I wheeled my cart away. I could not keep from thinking about the little boy as I finished my shopping in a totally different spirit than when I had started. And I kept remembering a story I had seen in the newspaper several days earlier, about a drunk driver hitting a car and killing a little girl and leaving the Mother in serious condition. The family was deciding on whether to remove the life support. Now surely this little boy did not belong with that story. Two days later, I read in the paper where the family had disconnected the life support and the young woman had died. I could not forget the little boy, and just kept wondering if the two were somehow connected.
Later that day, I could not help myself and I went out and bought some white roses and took them to the funeral home, where the young woman was. And there she was, holding a lovely white rose, the beautiful doll, and the picture of the little boy in the store. I left there in tears, my life changed forever. The love that little boy had for his little sister and his mother was overwhelming. And in a split second a drunk driver had ripped the life of that little boy to pieces.
Dec. 9
Dec.9
In a world divided by national, religious, political, and racial hatreds, it's time everyone reviewed Jesus' answer to the question, " Who is my neighbor?"
SCRIPTURE: Luke 10:30-34,36
SUGGESTION: Do a good deed anonymously
SONG: " Because I Have Been Given Much" Hymns, page 219
Fable of the Christmas Apple , The
ONCE long ago, there lived a little Swiss clock maker by the name of Herman Joseph. He lived alone in a little one room home next to his clock shop. The clock maker's back was bent and his legs were crooked which made him very short and funny to look at. However there was no kinder face than his in the whole city and the children loved him. Whenever a toy was broken or a doll lost an arm or a leg, its owner would carry it straight to Herman's shop. Whatever work Herman was doing, he would always put it aside to mend the cherished toy, never taking even a penny for his work.
It was the custom in those days for those who lived in the city to bring gifts to the great cathedral on Christmas, and lay them before the large painting of Mary and the Christ Child. There was a saying among them that when a gift was brought that pleased the Christ Child more than any other, He would reach down from Mary's arms and take it. This was but a saying, of course.
Those who had no gifts to bring went to the cathedral just the same on Christmas Eve to see the gifts of the others and to hear the carols and watch the bright candles burn. The little clock maker was one of those. Often he was stopped and someone would ask, "How does it happen that you never bring a gift? Poorer than you have brought offerings to the Child. Where is your gift, clock maker?"
Herman answered, "Wait! Someday you will see that I, too, shall bring a gift!" The truth of it was that the little clock maker was always so busy helping the village children, the poor and the needy, that there was never money left for gifts at Christmas.
He did have one wonderful idea, a secret surprise for the Christ Child, and he worked on it every spare minute he had. It was a clock, the most wonderful and beautiful clock ever made, and ever part of it had been fashioned with loving care. He had spent years carving the case and hands, years perfecting the works.
The little clock was fashioned like a stable with rafter, stall, and manger. The Holy Mother knelt beside the manger in which the tiny baby lay, while through the open door of the stable, the hours chimed. There were kings, shepherds, and angels and when the hour struck, one of the figures knelt in adoration before the sleeping child while silver chimes played. Finally, he had a gift worthy to take to the cathedral. The last days before Christmas, Herman set the Christmas clock in the shop window to the delight of passers by, and the children who always visited.
The day before Christmas, Herman cleaned up his shop, wound up all the clocks, brushed his clothes, and checked the Christmas clock one more time. He had to be sure that everything was perfect.
A blind beggar came to his door and, in his usual manner, the old clock maker gave all the money he had to him, reserving a few cents with which to buy an apple for his supper. He was putting the apple away in the cupboard when the door of the shop opened. Trude, a neighbor woman, came in softly crying. "Herr Joseph," she explained, "My husband is very ill. The medicine he needed was so expensive. All the money I had put by for Christmas is gone. How can I tell the children? Already they have lighted the candle at the window and wait for Kris Kringle to come."
The clock maker smiled gently. "Come, dear friend, all will be well. Perhaps I can sell a clock."
He buttoned his coat, picked out the best of the clocks he still had in the shop, and went out. He went to the rich merchants, but their houses were full of clocks. Other craftsmen in the village said the clocks were too old fashioned. The clock maker even stood on the street corners and in the town square crying, "A clock for sale. A good clock for sale!" No one paid attention to him.
At last, he gathered up his courage and went to the elaborate home of the richest man in the village. "Herr Graff, will your excellency buy a clock?" He was trembling at his own boldness. "I would not ask, but it is for Christmas and I am needing to buy a little happiness for some children." Herr Graff said, "Yes, I will buy a clock, but I want only the beautiful Christmas clock in your shop window. It must be that clock or none." "But that is impossible!" exclaimed the clock maker. "Anything but that clock! I have spent years making that clock to give as a gift to the Christ Child." Disheartened, he stumbled out of Herr Graff's house and trudged back to his shop. As he passed Trude's humble home, he saw the children at the window with their lighted candle. He heard their mother singing and saw the hope shining in their eyes.
So it happened that early on that Christmas evening, the servant of Herr Graff came to the clock maker's shop and carried away the beautiful Christmas clock, and coins were quietly pressed into the hand of his neighbor. As Herman looked out the door, the chimes commenced to ring from the great cathedral and the streets became noisy with crowds making their way to the church, bearing their offerings.
"I have gone empty handed before," he said sadly. "I can go that way again." He buttoned up his coat and turned to shut his cupboard door, but his eyes caught the shining red apple he had placed there. A smile warmed his face and lighted his eyes. "It is all I have. I will carry that to the Christ Child. It is better than going empty handed."
The great cathedral was full of peace and beauty when Herr Joseph entered. Many gifts were on the altar, richer gifts than had been brought for many years. There were beautifully wrought vessels from the east, songs and poems illustrated on fine parchment, paintings of the saints and angels. After all these offerings had been made, the little clock maker walked slowly up the aisle, holding tightly to his gift of the Christmas apple
As the people saw and a murmur arose. "Shame! See what he brings? Has he nothing better to give the Christ Child?" The words reached Herman and he stumbled on, his eyes blinded by his tears. He quickly left his gift, and turned to walk back down the aisle. Then the murmur of shame died away, and in its place rose one of wonder and awe. Soon the words became understandable. "The miracle! It has happened!"
All the people knelt in the big cathedral. The little clock maker turned and looked up through tear-dimmed eyes and seemed to see the Christ Child reach down from Mary's arms with outstretched hands to take his gift.
In a world divided by national, religious, political, and racial hatreds, it's time everyone reviewed Jesus' answer to the question, " Who is my neighbor?"
SCRIPTURE: Luke 10:30-34,36
SUGGESTION: Do a good deed anonymously
SONG: " Because I Have Been Given Much" Hymns, page 219
Fable of the Christmas Apple , The
ONCE long ago, there lived a little Swiss clock maker by the name of Herman Joseph. He lived alone in a little one room home next to his clock shop. The clock maker's back was bent and his legs were crooked which made him very short and funny to look at. However there was no kinder face than his in the whole city and the children loved him. Whenever a toy was broken or a doll lost an arm or a leg, its owner would carry it straight to Herman's shop. Whatever work Herman was doing, he would always put it aside to mend the cherished toy, never taking even a penny for his work.
It was the custom in those days for those who lived in the city to bring gifts to the great cathedral on Christmas, and lay them before the large painting of Mary and the Christ Child. There was a saying among them that when a gift was brought that pleased the Christ Child more than any other, He would reach down from Mary's arms and take it. This was but a saying, of course.
Those who had no gifts to bring went to the cathedral just the same on Christmas Eve to see the gifts of the others and to hear the carols and watch the bright candles burn. The little clock maker was one of those. Often he was stopped and someone would ask, "How does it happen that you never bring a gift? Poorer than you have brought offerings to the Child. Where is your gift, clock maker?"
Herman answered, "Wait! Someday you will see that I, too, shall bring a gift!" The truth of it was that the little clock maker was always so busy helping the village children, the poor and the needy, that there was never money left for gifts at Christmas.
He did have one wonderful idea, a secret surprise for the Christ Child, and he worked on it every spare minute he had. It was a clock, the most wonderful and beautiful clock ever made, and ever part of it had been fashioned with loving care. He had spent years carving the case and hands, years perfecting the works.
The little clock was fashioned like a stable with rafter, stall, and manger. The Holy Mother knelt beside the manger in which the tiny baby lay, while through the open door of the stable, the hours chimed. There were kings, shepherds, and angels and when the hour struck, one of the figures knelt in adoration before the sleeping child while silver chimes played. Finally, he had a gift worthy to take to the cathedral. The last days before Christmas, Herman set the Christmas clock in the shop window to the delight of passers by, and the children who always visited.
The day before Christmas, Herman cleaned up his shop, wound up all the clocks, brushed his clothes, and checked the Christmas clock one more time. He had to be sure that everything was perfect.
A blind beggar came to his door and, in his usual manner, the old clock maker gave all the money he had to him, reserving a few cents with which to buy an apple for his supper. He was putting the apple away in the cupboard when the door of the shop opened. Trude, a neighbor woman, came in softly crying. "Herr Joseph," she explained, "My husband is very ill. The medicine he needed was so expensive. All the money I had put by for Christmas is gone. How can I tell the children? Already they have lighted the candle at the window and wait for Kris Kringle to come."
The clock maker smiled gently. "Come, dear friend, all will be well. Perhaps I can sell a clock."
He buttoned his coat, picked out the best of the clocks he still had in the shop, and went out. He went to the rich merchants, but their houses were full of clocks. Other craftsmen in the village said the clocks were too old fashioned. The clock maker even stood on the street corners and in the town square crying, "A clock for sale. A good clock for sale!" No one paid attention to him.
At last, he gathered up his courage and went to the elaborate home of the richest man in the village. "Herr Graff, will your excellency buy a clock?" He was trembling at his own boldness. "I would not ask, but it is for Christmas and I am needing to buy a little happiness for some children." Herr Graff said, "Yes, I will buy a clock, but I want only the beautiful Christmas clock in your shop window. It must be that clock or none." "But that is impossible!" exclaimed the clock maker. "Anything but that clock! I have spent years making that clock to give as a gift to the Christ Child." Disheartened, he stumbled out of Herr Graff's house and trudged back to his shop. As he passed Trude's humble home, he saw the children at the window with their lighted candle. He heard their mother singing and saw the hope shining in their eyes.
So it happened that early on that Christmas evening, the servant of Herr Graff came to the clock maker's shop and carried away the beautiful Christmas clock, and coins were quietly pressed into the hand of his neighbor. As Herman looked out the door, the chimes commenced to ring from the great cathedral and the streets became noisy with crowds making their way to the church, bearing their offerings.
"I have gone empty handed before," he said sadly. "I can go that way again." He buttoned up his coat and turned to shut his cupboard door, but his eyes caught the shining red apple he had placed there. A smile warmed his face and lighted his eyes. "It is all I have. I will carry that to the Christ Child. It is better than going empty handed."
The great cathedral was full of peace and beauty when Herr Joseph entered. Many gifts were on the altar, richer gifts than had been brought for many years. There were beautifully wrought vessels from the east, songs and poems illustrated on fine parchment, paintings of the saints and angels. After all these offerings had been made, the little clock maker walked slowly up the aisle, holding tightly to his gift of the Christmas apple
As the people saw and a murmur arose. "Shame! See what he brings? Has he nothing better to give the Christ Child?" The words reached Herman and he stumbled on, his eyes blinded by his tears. He quickly left his gift, and turned to walk back down the aisle. Then the murmur of shame died away, and in its place rose one of wonder and awe. Soon the words became understandable. "The miracle! It has happened!"
All the people knelt in the big cathedral. The little clock maker turned and looked up through tear-dimmed eyes and seemed to see the Christ Child reach down from Mary's arms with outstretched hands to take his gift.
Dec. 6
Dec.6
Jesus was a healer. He touched away blindness and filled withered limbs with new life. He restored the mind and soul. surrounded by much hurt and sorrow, we can, in our own way, be healers also. Sometimes a kind word and a helping hand are all that is needed.
SCRIPTURE: 3 Nephi 17:5,6,9
SUGGESTION: Try to be as kind as possible to others today.
SONG: " I Need Thee Every Hour " Hymns, page 98
Christmas Cans
Jason could almost feel the pebbly surface of the new basketball that would soon be in his hands. Just a few more cans and I can buy it, he thought as he turned the corner into the alley.
The sight of a short, skinny, bearded man looking through the trash bins behind the courthouse startled him back to reality. He didn't want the man to see him, so he crouched behind a parked car. He had been collecting aluminum cans for the last three months and was going to turn them in to the recycling center to get the money for the basketball. Each day, Mr. Remington, the courthouse custodian, put a box of pop cans out in the alley for him.
The skinny man wore a lightweight jacket with a broken zipper. Underneath the jacket was a stained, hooded sweatshirt. There were holes in his tennis shoes, and he wasn't wearing socks. Jason shivered when he thought about how cold the man must be.
The man continued sorting through the trash bins, pulling out bottles,
newspapers, and old magazines and putting them in separate piles. He took a stack of magazines to an old bicycle that was leaning against the courthouse wall. The bike had high, V-shaped handlebars and a large wire basket on the front. The back tire rim was bent, and the two old tires didn't match. When the man was ready to go, he put the newspapers and bottles into a large garbage sack. As he got on his bike, Jason heard pop cans rattling inside the sack too. Jumping up, he yelled, "Hey! You can't take those cans--they're mine! Mr. Remington left them for me!"
The skinny man turned and stared at Jason. His lips were bluish gray, and his hands were shaking from the cold. "Finders, keepers, kid," he said in a gruff voice, then rode out the other end of the alley.
Jason stared at the empty alley for a minute, wondering what to do.
Then he ran around the courthouse and up the steps to the lobby, where it was warm. His dad was the county sheriff, and on days when he wasn't busy, he met Jason in the lobby after school and drove him home in the police car. As Jason waited now, he thought about the man in the alley. Why was he going through the trash bins? Why wasn't he wearing warm clothes? And why was he riding a bicycle in the middle of winter? "Ready to go?" Jason turned to see his father standing behind him. He was a tall man who didn't talk much.
"Somebody just stole the cans Mr. Remington put in the box for me," Jason blurted out as they walked to the car. As they drove toward home, he told his father about the man in the alley.
"How many cans have you collected?"
"I have two big, green trash bags full of smashed ones, and with the cans I collect from the courthouse Christmas party next week, I'll have enough to pay for my new basketball."
"Well," his father said, "you can get enough somewhere else--please don't collect any more cans from the courthouse."
"What?" Those are my cans! Mr. Remington leaves them there for me!"
His father looked hurt. "Think about that poor man, Jason. If you can't get cans somewhere else, you can earn money another way." His father looked very serious as he repeated, "Think about it."
Jason knew it was useless to argue. Hot tears began to well up in his eyes.
He turned and stared out the police car window. It was getting dark. The long shadows on the gray snow looked like strange dark animals playing tag with each other. I'll think about it, all right,
Jason thought to himself. Finders, keepers! He started to plan a way to get even with the man who had taken his cans. They were almost home when the police radio came on. "This is County One," his father said into the microphone. Jason was too upset to listen to what was being said. "Son," his father said when he was through talking on the radio. "I have some business to take care of. Do you want to come with me?"
Jason kept staring out the window. "I guess so," he said flatly.
The car turned sharply and headed toward the south side of town. Jason
didn't like this area; it made him nervous. Most of the houses were old and run-down. The stores didn't have Christmas lights, and their parking lots were littered with trash. Cars had been left on the side of the road with their hoods up and their windshields broken. Jason began to wish that he hadn't come along.
After going under a freeway overpass, they pulled into the driveway of an abandoned house. In the front yard two men stood warming their hands over a fire in an old steel drum. The strong wind whipped the fire, and the light danced across the police car. The men's shadows stretched across the house like giants. "Jason, I have to talk to some men. Stay in the car and keep the doors locked."
As his father walked over to the two men and began talking, Jason wondered idly why the men were out on such a cold night. After a while, his father turned on a flashlight and went toward the house. Most of the windows had been broken out, and there were no lights on. Jason's eyes followed the beam of light as it searched the house. Suddenly it lit up something familiar: On the front porch was the bike with the V-shaped handlebars! Jason sat up in his seat and pressed his face against the car window to see better. ‘Three men
came out of the house and began talking to his father. Jason tried to see if the skinny man was in the group, but it was too dark to see their faces.
The icy wind began to blow harder. Gusts shook the car and drove snow into the house. Jason's father talked a little while longer, then came back to the car. When the car door opened, a gust of cold air blasted Jason's face with tiny, sharp snow crystals. He shivered as his father started the car.
"Dad, did you see him, the guy who took my cans?" At first his father didn't answer. They drove for about a mile before he said, "Jason, the man who took the cans is not as fortunate as we are. He
doesn't have a job and lives in that abandoned house. He buys food with the money he gets from selling what old newspapers and cans he's able to collect.
Do you understand?" Jason looked up slowly and nodded. "I understand that you're going to let him steal my cans." As soon as they pulled into their driveway, Jason opened the door. Before he could jump out, though, his father put a hand on his shoulder. "Listen," his father said quietly, "I think that he needs the cans more than you do. But you're a good boy, and you're old enough to make some of your own choices. If you feel right about taking those cans, go ahead. It's your decision."
The day of the courthouse Christmas party, Jason got out of school early. "Finders, keepers, finders, keepers," he said over and over as he ran to the courthouse. He thought about all the cans that Mr. Remington would put in the box and about how much they would be worth. He thought about the new basketball and about his father's words. Then he thought about how surprised the skinny man was going to be when he found that Jason had arrived at the alley first.
He had never done anything like this before. His heart was pounding, and his stomach was in knots. "Finders, keepers," he repeated as he looked over his shoulder to make sure that no one was watching. He turned the corner and went into the courthouse alley.
Twenty minutes later the skinny man wheeled his bike into the alley. Jason was hiding in a doorway, his feet and hands aching from the cold. The man went to where the box of cans was kept. He stood quietly for a moment when he saw that the box was empty. Then he reached down and picked up two large green trash bags with red Christmas bows on them.
As the man opened the first bag, Jason heard the unmistakable clink of
smashed pop cans. The sound sent a warm rush through his body, and he felt wonderful. Finders, keepers, Jason thought. Finders, keepers!
F. Sterling Hughes, The Friend, December 1995
Jesus was a healer. He touched away blindness and filled withered limbs with new life. He restored the mind and soul. surrounded by much hurt and sorrow, we can, in our own way, be healers also. Sometimes a kind word and a helping hand are all that is needed.
SCRIPTURE: 3 Nephi 17:5,6,9
SUGGESTION: Try to be as kind as possible to others today.
SONG: " I Need Thee Every Hour " Hymns, page 98
Christmas Cans
Jason could almost feel the pebbly surface of the new basketball that would soon be in his hands. Just a few more cans and I can buy it, he thought as he turned the corner into the alley.
The sight of a short, skinny, bearded man looking through the trash bins behind the courthouse startled him back to reality. He didn't want the man to see him, so he crouched behind a parked car. He had been collecting aluminum cans for the last three months and was going to turn them in to the recycling center to get the money for the basketball. Each day, Mr. Remington, the courthouse custodian, put a box of pop cans out in the alley for him.
The skinny man wore a lightweight jacket with a broken zipper. Underneath the jacket was a stained, hooded sweatshirt. There were holes in his tennis shoes, and he wasn't wearing socks. Jason shivered when he thought about how cold the man must be.
The man continued sorting through the trash bins, pulling out bottles,
newspapers, and old magazines and putting them in separate piles. He took a stack of magazines to an old bicycle that was leaning against the courthouse wall. The bike had high, V-shaped handlebars and a large wire basket on the front. The back tire rim was bent, and the two old tires didn't match. When the man was ready to go, he put the newspapers and bottles into a large garbage sack. As he got on his bike, Jason heard pop cans rattling inside the sack too. Jumping up, he yelled, "Hey! You can't take those cans--they're mine! Mr. Remington left them for me!"
The skinny man turned and stared at Jason. His lips were bluish gray, and his hands were shaking from the cold. "Finders, keepers, kid," he said in a gruff voice, then rode out the other end of the alley.
Jason stared at the empty alley for a minute, wondering what to do.
Then he ran around the courthouse and up the steps to the lobby, where it was warm. His dad was the county sheriff, and on days when he wasn't busy, he met Jason in the lobby after school and drove him home in the police car. As Jason waited now, he thought about the man in the alley. Why was he going through the trash bins? Why wasn't he wearing warm clothes? And why was he riding a bicycle in the middle of winter? "Ready to go?" Jason turned to see his father standing behind him. He was a tall man who didn't talk much.
"Somebody just stole the cans Mr. Remington put in the box for me," Jason blurted out as they walked to the car. As they drove toward home, he told his father about the man in the alley.
"How many cans have you collected?"
"I have two big, green trash bags full of smashed ones, and with the cans I collect from the courthouse Christmas party next week, I'll have enough to pay for my new basketball."
"Well," his father said, "you can get enough somewhere else--please don't collect any more cans from the courthouse."
"What?" Those are my cans! Mr. Remington leaves them there for me!"
His father looked hurt. "Think about that poor man, Jason. If you can't get cans somewhere else, you can earn money another way." His father looked very serious as he repeated, "Think about it."
Jason knew it was useless to argue. Hot tears began to well up in his eyes.
He turned and stared out the police car window. It was getting dark. The long shadows on the gray snow looked like strange dark animals playing tag with each other. I'll think about it, all right,
Jason thought to himself. Finders, keepers! He started to plan a way to get even with the man who had taken his cans. They were almost home when the police radio came on. "This is County One," his father said into the microphone. Jason was too upset to listen to what was being said. "Son," his father said when he was through talking on the radio. "I have some business to take care of. Do you want to come with me?"
Jason kept staring out the window. "I guess so," he said flatly.
The car turned sharply and headed toward the south side of town. Jason
didn't like this area; it made him nervous. Most of the houses were old and run-down. The stores didn't have Christmas lights, and their parking lots were littered with trash. Cars had been left on the side of the road with their hoods up and their windshields broken. Jason began to wish that he hadn't come along.
After going under a freeway overpass, they pulled into the driveway of an abandoned house. In the front yard two men stood warming their hands over a fire in an old steel drum. The strong wind whipped the fire, and the light danced across the police car. The men's shadows stretched across the house like giants. "Jason, I have to talk to some men. Stay in the car and keep the doors locked."
As his father walked over to the two men and began talking, Jason wondered idly why the men were out on such a cold night. After a while, his father turned on a flashlight and went toward the house. Most of the windows had been broken out, and there were no lights on. Jason's eyes followed the beam of light as it searched the house. Suddenly it lit up something familiar: On the front porch was the bike with the V-shaped handlebars! Jason sat up in his seat and pressed his face against the car window to see better. ‘Three men
came out of the house and began talking to his father. Jason tried to see if the skinny man was in the group, but it was too dark to see their faces.
The icy wind began to blow harder. Gusts shook the car and drove snow into the house. Jason's father talked a little while longer, then came back to the car. When the car door opened, a gust of cold air blasted Jason's face with tiny, sharp snow crystals. He shivered as his father started the car.
"Dad, did you see him, the guy who took my cans?" At first his father didn't answer. They drove for about a mile before he said, "Jason, the man who took the cans is not as fortunate as we are. He
doesn't have a job and lives in that abandoned house. He buys food with the money he gets from selling what old newspapers and cans he's able to collect.
Do you understand?" Jason looked up slowly and nodded. "I understand that you're going to let him steal my cans." As soon as they pulled into their driveway, Jason opened the door. Before he could jump out, though, his father put a hand on his shoulder. "Listen," his father said quietly, "I think that he needs the cans more than you do. But you're a good boy, and you're old enough to make some of your own choices. If you feel right about taking those cans, go ahead. It's your decision."
The day of the courthouse Christmas party, Jason got out of school early. "Finders, keepers, finders, keepers," he said over and over as he ran to the courthouse. He thought about all the cans that Mr. Remington would put in the box and about how much they would be worth. He thought about the new basketball and about his father's words. Then he thought about how surprised the skinny man was going to be when he found that Jason had arrived at the alley first.
He had never done anything like this before. His heart was pounding, and his stomach was in knots. "Finders, keepers," he repeated as he looked over his shoulder to make sure that no one was watching. He turned the corner and went into the courthouse alley.
Twenty minutes later the skinny man wheeled his bike into the alley. Jason was hiding in a doorway, his feet and hands aching from the cold. The man went to where the box of cans was kept. He stood quietly for a moment when he saw that the box was empty. Then he reached down and picked up two large green trash bags with red Christmas bows on them.
As the man opened the first bag, Jason heard the unmistakable clink of
smashed pop cans. The sound sent a warm rush through his body, and he felt wonderful. Finders, keepers, Jason thought. Finders, keepers!
F. Sterling Hughes, The Friend, December 1995
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